


The Goldfinch

by Nilahxapiel



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Asexuality Spectrum, BDSM, Bondage, Collars, Consensual Kink, Demiromantic Asexual, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Minor Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon, Multi, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Praise Kink, Sadism, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sex Positive, Sexual Identity, Sexual Kink, Sexual Submission, Sub Oswald, Subdrop, Unrequited Crush, asexual bdsm, smut with asexuality in mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilahxapiel/pseuds/Nilahxapiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing wrong with Oswald Cobblepot. </p><p> </p><p>1. Fish Mooney<br/>2-3. Victor Zsasz<br/>4-5. Edward Nygma</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mooney

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fourcardflush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourcardflush/gifts).



-

-

-

_ “Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it’s going to kill us.”  - _ Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

-

-

-

 

There is nothing wrong with Oswald Cobblepot.

 

This statement, whether true or false, is one that his mother repeats to him hundreds of times in his childhood, in a variety of circumstances. She tells the neighbors, the milkman, the mailman, the clerk at the local grocery, his teachers, his principals, and never wavers in her resolve on this matter.

 

If Oswald is picking on another student, he’s been picked on first and is acting in self defense. If he’s doodling mocking pictures of the teacher in class, it’s because the material is too low level to keep his attention. If he throws a tantrum and breaks something, he’s passionate and strong-willed. If he swipes candies from the shop around the corner, it’s because he was  _ hungry -  _ he’s a growing boy, and those are much too expensive for their worth anyway. 

 

Every questionable action can be, and is, explained away by his mother. Even when she does feel the need to correct his behavior, it is on the coattails of a dozen compliments and assurances about his goodness of character, of his value as a person. He is clever, he is handsome, he is  _ special _ .

 

When a girl in class complains that he’s a bully, his teachers bring his mother in. She is one of the popular, pretty girls in class, and Oswald thinks it was necessary to knock her off her pedestal. He’d gathered as many bugs as he could from playground and put them in her lunchbox, then watched her from his lonely corner of the cafeteria when she’d opened it up and found critters crawling all over her ham and cheese sandwich. He remembers fondly that she screamed like a little girl.

 

Later that night his mother asks over dinner if he thinks he might  _ like  _ the girl in question.

 

The idea absolutely baffles him. In truth, he has no idea what she means by it. Why would he do something like that to someone he liked? Besides, he didn’t like anyone at school, not the kids or the teachers. There was that one teacher, who had been extra sweet to him in the first grade, let him eat lunch with him in his classroom and told silly knock knock jokes that Oswald laughed at however dumb he found them even as a child - but that man was long gone. Thinking of him made his chest swell like it never had with anyone else in his short life.

 

But the little girl in class? The one that had snickered about his ‘beak nose’, about his bad haircut, who had whispered about the food his mother sent him to lunch with because it wasn’t white bread?

 

His mother studies his face, sags with relief, then goes on and on about how she’d known that there was no way and about how he is still her little boy.

 

Even in the years that pass, as his teenage years expose a decidedly  _ grosser  _ aspect of his body, he still finds that there is no direction for it. There is no girl, despite his mother’s insistent worries, and there’s no  _ boy  _ either, despite what the idiots at his high school like to jeer about as he walks by.

 

The only direction he has is  _ up. _

 

His face is tilted skyward, and he’s working too hard toward his goals to focus on the people around him, unless they’re pieces of the puzzle. No one around him, for the longest time, is worth a second look, or however many looks it might take for him to  _ want  _ them, like so many people seem to want other people.

 

Even when other boys around them are muttering about the girls they want to get into the pants of, and later when they’re knocking girls up, and getting married, and cheating on those girls with  _ other  _ girls - 

 

He remains alone, comfortably so. He has his mother, and he has his mind, both of which are too expansive and important to the world for common people to grasp.

 

Sex  occasionally seems like it might be nice, at least from what he’s heard and read, but it also seems like it involves a level of trust that he can not afford, and so it really is lucky that it’s a rare, fleeting thought. Lucky that the interest is never attached to a person, which might give it legitimacy, which might bring it to fruition.

 

Although he’s been called freak, and much worse, it slides off of him as though he were truly as slippery as his various would-be murderers and assailants accuse him of being. It fuels him, because he knows a truth that they will never be able to comprehend.

 

There. Is.  _ Nothing _ . Wrong. With. Him.

 

His mother is not a liar. At least, she’s never lied to  _ him.  _ On occasion, when he feels like there might be something...off, inside him, he consoles himself with the notion that such a thing is impossible.

 

There is nothing wrong with him, according to the only person cares for him, the only person whose opinion matters. 

 

Oswald Cobblepot is not broken - he is unencumbered by carnal desires, which perhaps is why he makes it into the employ of one of the most powerful bosses by the age of nineteen. It takes him two years to get promoted to a job that allows him to interact with the boss at all, but once he does, it’s only another year before he’s given a position as ‘umbrella boy’. He takes every chance he gets, and keeps his head down for show.

 

He has no sentimental hindrances, just goals and machinations.

 

The closest he comes to distraction, for the longest time, is Fish Mooney. 

 

-

 

“Oswald,” She purrs to him one evening, with no warning other than a lingering gaze that doesn’t so much penetrate as  _ slither _ , as though seeking a crevice through which to burrow. “Come sit next to me for a moment.”

 

“Ah, yes, Miss Mooney, of course. ” 

 

He sets down the glass he’s drying and straightens his lapels, suddenly anxious. He makes his way over to where she’s sitting in a booth. She pats the spot next to her and he slides in beside her, looking around to see if any of her henchmen are within earshot. No one is, not even Butch, who is at her side more often than not.

 

She drags her eyes over him, taking stock of him slowly before meeting his eyes and speaking again.

 

“Do you like boys, or girls?”

 

This question catches him off guard; he hesitates and purses his lips, not entirely sure how to answer.

 

Not only because he’s just a busboy (for  _ now) _ and as such he's not sure how that's relevant, but because Fish has only spoken to him directly on a few other occasions to request a refill or for him to fetch whatever strikes her fancy at the time. They’re purposeful tasks and he commits to each of them obediently,  _ intelligently _ . He has a plan to get ahead, eventually, but he’s watched Fish long enough to know the value of patience and loyalty. 

 

Perceived loyalty, anyway. For now he’s just putting in his dues until an opportunity presents itself, and learning from her while he’s at it.

 

There is much to learn from Fish Mooney.

 

It’s a feat for a woman to be in charge of as much domain as she is. Oswald has always been impressed with how far she’s come, and part of him is actually rooting for her to win out over Falcone. A much more substantial part is rooting for himself, however, even if he's not quite in the running yet. 

 

“Is that too personal a question for you, Oswald?” Fish inquires, leaning back to regard him from behind a glass of red wine as she lifts it to her painted lips. 

 

A thought hits him suddenly, and not for the first time. His mother wouldn’t think much of Fish; he’s thought this before. She’d think her a harlot in her skimpy dresses, heavy eye shadow, and acrylic nails - but Oswald can appreciate style, and Fish has certainly made her brand known. 

 

It's part of what makes her necessary to the system.. Only she can do what she does, just as she does it. 

 

“No, Miss Mooney,” He replies, quickly this time, shifting in his seat and attempting not to appear awkward. It doesn’t work. “It’s just that my answer isn’t really one or the other.”

 

She raises a single sculpted eyebrows, looking him over appraisingly. 

 

“You could have just said  _ both _ .”

 

“Actually,” Oswald hides a grimace, and decides on honesty. “It’s neither, as far as I can tell. ”

 

Her bright eyes hold his gaze for a string of loaded seconds, then she waves her hand elegantly, fingers splaying out before her smoothly.

 

“As far as you can tell,” she repeats slowly, her smile broad in a way which reminds Oswald of the Cheshire cat.  “Explain.”

 

Oswald does, trying to keep his tone casually in the face of her blatant attention. She's not the sort to be easily flattered by excessive eagerness. He does his best to reel in the anxiety in his stomach, but this conversation intimidates him.

 

_ She  _ intimidates him; that's the terrible truth. More so even than the men that could snap him (and her, for that matter) in half. 

 

“I’ve never ‘liked’ anyone in particular, at least not in the fashion I presume you mean.”   
  


She has the audacity to laugh, and Oswald’s jaw tightens a bit. A flicker of her eyes on his face tells him that she notices this, but he can’t be sure.

 

“I find that hard to believe, Oswald.”

 

There’s nothing to say to that, except that which he knows he cannot say -

 

_ THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME. _

 

“Don’t make that face, little Oswald,” Fish laughs again dryly and leans toward him, “I’m quite aware that asexuality exists, and while it well may be that you are of that particular proclivity, I don’t think it’s true that you’ve never liked  _ anyone  _ before.”

 

Oswald’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t object. Her lip curls and she presses her palm to her chest, highlighting the line of her bare collarbone.

 

“You like  _ me, _ ” the word is drawled, rolling off her her tongue fluidly. “don’t you?”

 

Warmth creeps up his neck and he searches her face for a trace of a test, but she doesn’t give anything away. It’s not a notion that Oswald has not entertained before, out of the sheer improbability of it, but he supposes that what he feels for Fish may very well be infatuation. She is one of the few that could be worthy of a portion of his affections, but it’s not something he would have ever pursued. 

 

Fish is rich, powerful, beautiful, desired, and -from what he’s observed - a master of seduction. 

 

Oswald is decidedly not. Even this, this  _ talk,  _ leaves him is out of his depths, which infuriates him in a secret, shadowed corner of his brain.

 

“Maybe,” He concedes quietly, smoothing his hands over his thighs, fidgeting. “I’m not sure. It’s not exactly familiar enough that I would have ever acted on it. Have I behaved inappropriately somehow -?”

 

“Shhhhh.” She holds up a finger and presses it to his mouth, tracing the center dip of his top lip with a pointed nail. “It’s familiar to  _ me _ . I’ve been watching you, here and there, for the last few weeks. You like recognition, and you enjoy  _ pleasing  _ me.”

 

_ Watching me. I knew it, I knew I’d catch your attention, I’ve barely been here three months and already I’ve caught your eye, albeit not quite in the way I suspected I would. _

 

“Doesn’t everyone?” Oswald asks, almost playfully, but his smile falters a bit under that unwavering gaze. Her stillness and elegance annoys him; it is something that does not come to him naturally, nor is it something that he can fake very convincingly.

 

“Don’t worry, just do as I say,” She murmured gently, dragging the tip of her nail over his bottom lip until his lips are forced to part slightly. “I think you like that, when I tell you just what to do, and how. But I could be wrong - let me push you a little, hm, Oswald?”

 

_ Push me..In what way? As a mentor, or saboteur?  _

 

“I want to see what exactly makes you ...tick.”

 

_ So that you can dismantle me? Do you already see me as a threat? No, you can’t, I’ve been patient, I’m years away from making a move from an advantageous position - _

 

“I think you want to know too,” She draws her thumb down his jaw, until it tickles the hollow beneath his ear. “You wouldn’t believe how useful it is, to  _ know  _ yourself. To know  _ what  _ you like, and  _ how  _ you like it, and if you  _ really  _ like nothing at all. Knowing yourself is a valuable tool for people like us.”

 

_ People like us.  _

 

She doesn’t elucidate, but he knows what she means - or else, she’s put the thought there. Whatever insertion he’s granted himself worthy of, whatever adjective he’s placed in that blank space she’s offered. He recognizes the manipulation technique with ease, but it still strokes a tender place inside his head, it still halfway works even when he’s aware of it.

 

Just like that, he’s learned something already.

 

Oswald’s eyes search Fish’s face, brow furrowing slightly as he thinks this over. It could be a trick, after all, and he doesn’t really put it past her. She can’t hold him in any regard yet, after all, so the idea that she took this interest in him without any tangible cause puts him on edge.

 

“And you’d offer me something that valuable?”

 

He isn’t entirely sure what she means, but he figures that’s partly the point. While he can figure that knowing himself will make it easier to know others, and their motivations, and therein utilize (or destroy) them most effectively - what exactly his ‘proclivities’ have to do with it, he can’t know yet.

 

“Didn’t I just?” Fish murmurs seriously, gesturing again fluidly with a hand, presenting her offer as finitely as she can.

 

Oswald is curious, and reluctantly intrigued by her assessment of him, but in truth he agrees simply because he can find no reason not to. If anything, it will be useful data; more quality time with someone who will eventually be his enemy will be value in and of itself.

 

“I’d be honored, Miss Mooney,” he finally says, clasping his hands together, pale digits steepling on top of the table.

 

“Then I’ll call on you soon.” She pulls her hand back abruptly, leaving and settling it gently around her glass of wine once more. “Be prepared.”

 

Considering she hadn’t told him  _ how  _ to prepare for  _ whatever  _ it was she had in mind, Oswald doesn’t think that’s a fair command, but he nods as if it is just same.

 

-

 

It’s a week before she speaks to him again.

 

Although his admiration later warps into jealousy, there is a time in Oswald’s life when he truly enjoys his time with Fish.

 

She compartmentalizes more effectively than anyone he’s ever come across. As much as men love to preach on their superior logic, he sees a dozen of them fall under her spell with so little effort at all from her. Their motivations are so simple (so  _ moronic, _ and  _ plebeian)  _ that they are almost too easily exploited.

 

The most common of which are sex, money, and power.

 

There are the men for hire, with no other motivation than their greed and security. Their only interest in moving up is when it comes with a pay raise. Fish keeps them happy with monetary bonuses and periodic raises, and makes sure that she’s always paying a little more than  anyone else at her level can afford. It’s smart and effective; unless Fish stops giving them their due, these men will not betray her. She will buy their fidelity every time.

 

Then there are the men she has for  _ exercise _ ; they are young, tall, athletic men that can keep up with her in every way she deems necessary. They are the men she’s using, who have no style or unique disposition in and of themselves, those stand to be manipulated with physical or emotional affection. She  sleeps with some of them, the ones that need it (and that  _ is  _ the thing, isn’t it? They  _ need  _ her), but most of them are strung along willingly, nipping in vain at a carrot of their own making.

 

And then - and Oswald only learns this later, when he becomes one of them -  there are the men she  _ keeps _ . The ones she cares for, guides and nurtures, tends to like a garden. She has a penchant for  _ creating  _ people, to bring out parts of them that they might have never discovered for themselves. It makes them wiser, stronger, gives them a new nativity.

 

Even if Oswald will one day spit on Fish’s grave happily, he will always have a part of himself that was born all thanks to her tutelage. 

 

The next time they talk, she says the same thing.

 

“Oswald. Come sit next to me for a moment.”

 

He approaches again, like before, but this time she’s at a table, watching audition after audition. There’s no other chair at the table and he pauses, looking around.

 

“Shall I get a chair, Miss Mooney?”

 

She tuts, smiling, then glances down at the floor beside her. His eyes follow her gaze to the patch of carpet to the left of her chair.

 

“That won’t be necessary.”

 

He isn’t an idiot, however surprising the development.

 

Though he hesitates for a several moments, heartbeat picking up and echoing in his ears. He curses at himself, and notices that her necklace is slightly crooked. 

 

A flaw. 

  
He grasps onto that and uses it to find his voice again.

 

“So, you want me to -”   
  


“You’re a clever boy, Oswald, I’ve said so before,” Fish says to him, plucking up her wine with an elegant flourish and then turning her gaze back on the man who is currently singing on stage.

 

It takes him another moment before he’s kneeling on the carpet next to her, watching the auditioner because there’s nothing else for him to do. Oswald glances around, but it’s before opening hours, and the few workers that are setting up for the evening aren’t looking in his direction at all. He straightens out his jacket, then keeps his fingers twisted into the fabric so that he doesn’t fidget.

 

When the man with the sub-par, cheesy baritone steps off the stage, a woman crosses to center and after she introduces herself, she begins to dance. It’s practically a strip show - no taste to it at all, and Oswald averts his eyes to the ground, bored with it already. Tramps like that gave dancing a bad name, and he was insulted for his mother, who had once been a  _ brilliant  _ dancer.

 

_ Much better than the shit we get here most nights - _

 

His thoughts are cut short when he feels Fish’s fingers in his hair. She strokes idly, slender, nimble fingers sifting through his locks for the next several minutes. A waiter comes by to refill her glass of wine and bring a plate of something Oswald can’t see from his angle.

 

The waiter glances down at him, and Oswald ducks his head slightly, realizing how this must look. His kneecaps are aching and his legs are growing numb under him, but the worst part of this will be the stares, the way that the laymen will look at him for debasing himself for personal gain.

 

_ She’s doing this to humiliate me, that was her plan all along, this is harassment, she wanted me to feel like an idiot so that I would never cross her! _

 

“ _ You _ ,” Fish snaps, her voice like a whip, loud enough to make the dancer stumble and stop, afraid she’s talking to her. The waiter’s grip on the wine bottle falters and his eyes yank away from Oswald to her.

 

“Y-y-yes, Miss -”

 

“If I catch you looking at Oswald  _ one more time _ , you’ll find yourself wishing I’d fired you here and now, so that you might have had the chance to leave here in one piece.”

 

His chest tightened with something like pride when the waiter stammered a ‘Y-yes, M-Miss Mooney’ and it’s suddenly as though he can feel his own blood pumping through his veins. He forgets the ache in his legs, feels as though he could go up on stage and dance  _ himself.  _ For an instant, he watches the waiter depart from beneath his fringe with  dark contentment.

 

_...Oh. This isn’t bad. _

 

“Now,  _ Oswald _ , posture is so important.” 

 

She tugs hard at the hair at the back of his neck, making him straighten up, back arching slightly. He awakes from the rush, but all he can feel are the needles of sensation from where she’s pulling his hair.

 

Oswald refuses to stammer, if only to be a contrast to the ( _ SLIME _ ) waiter.

 

“Yes, Miss Mooney.”

 

“ _ Good _ . Now, we need to do something about that hair of yours, Oswald.” Fish murmurs, stroking his face as she moves a lock out of his eyes. “Your hair should say something about you. It should make a statement, not just  _ lie  _ there. We’ll think of something for you together, hm?”

 

-

 

Over the next several months, he comes to find that Fish enjoys having him on his knees. 

 

Many times she’ll just have him sit, and she’ll play with his hair or tell him to open his mouth, placing tiny portions of fruit and meat and cheese on his tongue.

 

(Years later he’ll laugh about  _ biting the hand that feeds. _ )

 

Other times, however, she’ll have him complete a task - the first time, it’s a rose from the magician that’s auditioning. He pulls a vibrant red one out of thin air and offers it to Fish, who is laughing, impressed with the show. Oswald is smiling along with her, as he has learned to do, as Fish has taught him to do. He’s always had a knack for it anyway, getting people on his side by pretending to be on theirs, but she has nudged him in all the right ways.

 

_ Copying expressions and emotions makes people trust you. _ Oswald finds himself doing it impulsively now, the more that this odd but pleasant dynamic becomes a part of his routine.

 

“Go fetch that for me, Oswald,” she tells him, settling further back into her seat and removing her hand from his hair.

 

“Of course, Miss Mooney.”

 

Oswald starts to stand, but before he finishes getting up off of the first knee, he’s realized his mistake. He lets his gaze flicker back to her, where she’s watching him expectantly, and he knows for certain, though she gives nothing away. He knows her better now. Not perfectly, not even as well as she knows him, but enough to know what she wants from him here and now.

 

He shifts forward instead, onto his hands and knees.

 

“Clever boy,” Fish murmurs. He can hear the way the words are shaped by her teeth; he doesn’t need to look back over his shoulder to know she’s smiling.

 

So he crawls, making him way the handful of yards to the stage, looking up at the magician, who looks nervous and uncertain. 

 

Oswald sneers at him and snaps his teeth sharply, making the magician jump. 

 

It’s more than a little satisfying. 

 

Then Oswald opens his jaw again, not wasting his words. Soon, the gaudily dressed fraud is kneeling himself to obey, setting the stem of the rose against his teeth.

 

He bites down, and turns, ignoring the heat in his ears as he makes his way back. A thorn slices his lip on the way, and by the time he gets over to her, blood is trickling down his chin. 

 

Fish uncrosses her legs and bends close to him, taking his chin in the fingers of one hand while she takes the rose out of his mouth with the other.

 

“Oh dear, Oswald,” She coos, dragging her thumb up the warm line of blood to wipe it away. “You’ve hurt yourself.”

 

She drags the thumb over his bottom lip, painting it red, and Oswald shudders involuntarily. The action sends sparks through him and he almost wants to pull away at the shock of it.

 

“Let Mama help.”

 

He does.

 

She kisses him then, slow and sweet, but in unison with the ever-present bitter, metallic tang of  blood on his tongue. Her lips are full and soft, and despite all of Oswald’s preconceived notions on the matter ( sex and kissing seemed like they would go hand and hand) he finds himself enchanted with it. 

 

With her.

 

It’s not the last time Fish kisses him, nor the last time she makes him taste his own blood.

 

-

Years pass and he gains one privilege after another, earns an apartment near the theatre, earns higher pay, more benefits, more respect. The others snicker about him and call him a  _ pet _ , which - along with his appearance, he surmises - is what results in his ludicrous nickname.

 

There are comments about Fish’s little bird, about a gilded cage, about what he must do for her behind closed doors to get the position he’s been offered so young.

 

He wouldn’t have been able to explain it to them even if he’d wanted to, not in a way that their perverted, simple minds would be able to understand. In truth, while occasionally there are kisses shared between them, Oswald has never seen Fish nude, nor does he feel inclined to. 

 

She does see him as such, but it’s an exhibition of her power, nothing to do with  _ sex _ , when she has him strip to nothing in front of her and kneel again.

 

That happens just a few times, but the first leaves him shaking because he doesn’t  _ know  _ what her plan is then, even after so long. She gives him a present the second time, when he trusts her more, when he has the first time as reference for what to expect.

 

This time she gives him a gift - jewelry, strangely enough. It’s a simple gold chain, thick enough to be meant for men, and elegantly crafted. What strikes him is the length - it’s too short to be a necklace and too long to be a bracelet.

 

She fastens it around his neck, and he feels like an idiot for not understanding.

 

“Thank you for the gift, Miss Mooney.”

 

“Please, Oswald,” She murmurs, gesturing toward the pile of clothes on the floor as a way of saying it was fine for him to redress. “Call me Fish.”

 

-

 

It’s not until he turns twenty-eight that it strikes him that he may be getting soft. 

 

He finds himself fidgeting the with the necklace ( _ collar) _ fish had given him out of habit, as though he’s grown used to it being there. He finds himself kneeling almost eagerly at her side, or in front of her to rub her feet the way she likes, looking forward to the feel of her hand in his hair and wondering if he’ll be allowed a rare kiss.

 

She’s leading him through one of the halls that connects the back of the house to the front of the house when she suddenly stops. He’s just behind her, and so he stops too, watching her carefully as she turns back to him.

 

“You know, Oswald, I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ve been... a little selfish.”

 

Fish places a hand on his chest and steps forward, pushing him back a foot, then two.

 

“....I could find you anyone,” Fish presses him to the wall and looks up at him, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt and sliding her hand beneath the fabric, to touch the present she’d given him the year before. 

 

“I’m sorry?” Oswald blinks, swallowing as she slides her hand into place, curling it around his throat and pressing just enough to let her know she’s there. That she’s watching, that she can feel his heart, that she  _ sees  _ him. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

 

“As you may be aware, I’m a woman with ...well, networking skills. I have friends in high places, and low places too, and any place you might set your pretty little mind on,” She shifts her hand up, digging her thumb into the hollow of his throat. “Any girl, any boy, anyone in between, or both. Whoever you like.”

 

 _Whoever I like?_ _Haven’t we been over this?_

 

“I - I don’t like anyone, Fish.”

 

“Is that so?” She asks, mouth drawing down in such a way that it’s almost a out. Oswald flushes and looks away, only to look back when she tightens her grip, taking his breath for a moment.

 

Oswald assures himself that she wouldn’t kill him for no reason (and hasn’t done anything,  _ yet _ ), and logically, her hands are too small to choke him with just one. It’s the sharp nails that worry him; they tickle his skin, reminding him that they were there, they were close, and they and dangerous.

 

_ She  _ was  _ dangerous _ , and he was shamefully captivated by her all over again, after all this time.

 

“I don’t like anyone,” he repeats, this time closing his eyes. “else. I don’t...like anyone...  _ else _ .”

 

It seems to be the right answer.

 

Unfortunately for Oswald, it is also an honest one.

 

“You are such a good boy, Oswald,” She sighs, pressing her mouth to his collarbone tenderly, leaving a red stain on his skin, then pulling away from him all at once. 

 

His heart hammers his ribs and he tries not to think of the honesty of his words, and how he’s forsaken his entire goal by admitting it, by  _ meaning it. _

 

“Fix your shirt and then come sit with me, darling boy.” She leaves him then, and he sinks down the wall, catching what was left of the wind that’s fled his lungs. 

 

It takes him another minute for his heart to settle and several minutes for the ache between his legs to subside. While Fish can be strict, she is also generous, especially with those that have shown her loyalty ( _ submission) _ . Oswald has, for almost eight years now, but while their relationship has strengthened…

 

...it is the only thing in his life that has truly progressed. 

 

He’d always said he’d be further than this by now - he should have been more than just a lackey on his fifth straight year of umbrella duty. 

 

At best, if he keeps this up, he can hope to one day get rid of Butch and be her second in command, but that has never been the dream, that isn’t how he was  _ meant to end up. _ He is not destined to be on his knees beside the greatest boss in all of Gotham while she lounges on her throne and feeds him  _ grapes  _ at her  _ leisure.  _

 

The worst part is that it is not a lie in the least - he likes Fish, more than he’s ever suspected he could like any person, but if he’s going to achieve what he’s always wanted to, what he has gone to sleep each night thinking about, what he  _ must,  _ then that just won’t  _ do.  _

 

Somehow she’s manufactured a weakness within him; she has corrupted him with her kindness and sweet words and touches, with her  _ power _ . She’s used an intrinsic part of his nature against him, for her use, and it has threatened everything he as ever wanted to accomplish.

 

_ Perhaps that was her plan all along. She saw a threat in me, and seeked to subdue it even then. _

 

He decides then that there  _ is  _ something wrong with him, but he pinpoints its origin and figures out the best way to cure himself of the abominable flaw.

 

Fish is what is wrong with him.

 

Fish is  _ everything  _ that is wrong with him, and if he can only wash her out of his mind, out of Gotham, out of the world, he’ll be on track once more. 

 

And Fish, god damned  _ Fish  _ -

 

Fish has always liked him on his knees. 

 

It isn’t coincidence that, when she discovers his treachery, she leaves him crippled in such a way that he can never kneel again without severe pain, without thinking of  _ her _ .

 

_ - _

_ - _

_ - _

 


	2. Victor

-

-

-

_ “Unsettled heart. The fetishism of secrecy. These people understood—as I did—the back alleys of the soul, whispers and shadows, money slipping from hand to hand, the password, the code, the second self, all the hidden consolations that lifted.” _ -Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

-

-

-

 

It’s good to be king.

 

Well, he isn’t yet, technically, but soon.

 

Whatever qualms that had been hiding in the pit of his stomach about betraying Fish died the day she’d tried to kill him. When he finally kills her, that will solve his problem for good. He's almost there. 

 

There are no lingering thoughts in the back of his mind, no missing pieces of himself. He certainly doesn’t occasionally find himself touching his own throat while he is lost in thought, as though expecting ( _ hoping)  _ for the comforting weight to be there.

 

If he does, he shoves it out of his thoughts as quickly as it comes, because that display of servitude has no place being a symbol of better days.  _ These  _ are the good old days, this is better than anything he’s ever had with Fish - people look at him like Butch looked at her, like Oswald presumably looked at her from time, like  _ sycophants  _ looked at the objects of their affections. 

 

That’s all behind him now. 

 

Now that he has the power, every decision in all of the city is ultimately his to make, should he take it upon himself. He is the only one that can do what he can do, and he does it brilliantly, even securing a friendship with one Jim Gordon for the future. Good cops in Gotham are hard to come by, and even harder to secure on one’s side. 

 

It always seems to be reluctant on the detective’s part, and he does next to nothing for Oswald in return, save for a quick errand that he ends up butchering anyway. One favor after another, until Oswald has to wonder why he allows it.

 

No, scratch that, he doesn’t  _ have  _ to wonder anything. He’s the King of Gotham and he does what he wants; he’s sure that Jim’s accrued favors will come in handy one day. But, again, Oswald isn’t obligated to anyone, not even himself, to pick apart his own motivations.

 

In fact, he’s decided, and he won’t wonder about it at all.

  
  


-

  
  


“Your cop friend didn’t show up.”

 

The voice breaks him out of his drunken stupor; Oswald isn’t sure how long he’s been staring ahead at the glaring umbrella sign where the fish used to be, his vision in soft focus. After singing and dancing for however long, Oswald has finally collapsed into a booth, unable to feel his face. Or toes.

 

It isn’t a stranger, whoever is talking, but he can’t seem to connect the voice to a face in his head. He also can’t seem to work up the strength to turn his head, lest the room start spinning again.

 

“No one showed up,” He mutters, taking another long swig of wine. It tastes like water,  like nothing at all really,  because he’s already so  _ gone.  _

 

Before he knows it, the bottle of wine is being plucked out of his fingers and he’s turning on his intruder despite his previous thoughts on the matter.

 

Victor Zsasz stands before him, holding the bottle out of his reach.

 

“I did.”

 

Oswald rolls his eyes, “I pay you.”

 

“Yep,” he agrees, then sniffs the bottle. “Not bad. Is this your second bottle?”

 

“What?”

 

The words seems to slide over his brain, and he can’t quite catch any of them. He blinks a few times and his vision focuses on Victor a little more solidly for a moment, then forces himself to stand up.

 

“What  _ are  _ you doing here?”

 

“It’s a party, isn’t it?” Victor says, then looks at his wrist. “No really,  _ isn’t  _ it?”

 

It actually takes Oswald a moment to figure out why he might be doing that - a wristwatch. Obviously. He’s making a show of how early it is for a party to be so empty, the absolute  _ bastard. _

 

This level of intoxication is unbecoming, he knows, but then, all he really wants is the bottle back. He stands up, and the world rushes into his head all at once. He feels like he might fall over, or puke, but the wave passes and he chances a step away from the table.

 

“It’s kind of a lame one though,” Victor continues, taking a few steps back even as he pretends not to notice that Oswald was beginning to come after him. “Did no one show up at all?”

 

“There wasn’t enough notice,” Oswald defends, “They would’ve… they might’ve -”

 

“You think?” Victor asks, finally setting down the bottle on a table in the center of the room. Oswald is annoyed, but makes his way over just the same, his limp a little less pronounced than usual - he can’t feel the ache as much when he’s drunk, after all.

 

Even so, he sways more than once on his way over.

 

“If you’ve come here just to insult me, you can  _ leave, _ ” Oswald spits, and infuriatingly, it just makes Victor smile broadly. Oswald wonders if he really has an inordinate amount of teeth or if it just seems that way considering the breadth of his grin.

 

Even with his current level of debility, Oswald is struck by the placement of the table that Zsasz has positioned himself by. He pauses a few yards away, glancing over it, and then over to the stage to gauge the distance. 

 

It’s a different table - he’s remodeled the place entirely - but it’s definitely the spot.

 

“Why the long face, Boss?” Victor asks, pulling out a chair and seating himself backwards, long legs straddling the back of the chair.

 

“Falcone’s your Boss,” Oswald corrects him, narrowing his eyes. The squinting clears up his blurry vision slightly and he thinks he catches a knowing expression on Victor’s face. It’s so pale and clear of distinguishing marks that it’s difficult to tell, even at this distance.

 

“Maybe,” Victor shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “For now.”

 

_ Are you trying to imply I’m after Falcone’s position? Out loud? As if I would ever admit such a thing, not so soon after he’s given me this club. Where you sent here to trap me? Is the old man doubting my loyalty already? _

 

Even drunk, he’s not that stupid. Or, at least, his paranoia outweighs his drunkenness. 

 

“Falcone is in good health, you needn’t worry,” Oswald tells him, pretending to misunderstand. 

 

_ “Clever boy.” _

 

“Don’t call me that,” Oswald snaps, too loudly,  immediately irritated that the man can blindly sit where Fish sat and call him what Fish called him.

 

“What, clever?”

 

“ _ Boy. _ ”

 

Victor tilts his head to the side. “I didn’t.”

 

“You…?” Had he imagined it? “Oh.”

 

“If you’re hearing things,” Victor begins, hopping out of the seat and straightening his coat. “it’s probably about time for you to go to bed.”

 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Oswald snarls, grabbing onto a chair as the floor starts to tilt. 

 

It rights itself a moment later, but the damage is done. He’s not going to stay on his feet much longer.

 

There is a long silence between them, and Oswald wishes Victor would just leave. He’s been sent there by Falcone, no doubt, and is going to report back to him about this small but humiliating failure, the  _ abysmal  _ state of the opening party.

 

If one can even call this such. 

 

Oswald is supposed to be celebrating a victory. Fish is gone, out of his hair, and instead this man is taunting him by drawing his gaze back to the place on the  _ floor.  _

 

It’s inadvertent, it must be.

 

While technically he’d met Victor for the first time when he was twenty-five and the hitman was Falcone’s ‘new man’ that had yet to prove himself, they hadn’t even made eye contact. Fish had been stroking his hair while Victor made an example of some other Boss that had attempted to usurp power from Falcone on the stage.

  
Though Fish had kept calm through it all, her hand had tightened in Oswald’s locks when Victor had slit the man’s throat. It had been slow, a long curved line, like a second smile.

 

Oswald had been a nobody then, and there had been a dozen other people watching - Falcone’s men and Fish’s. He’d just been the little  _ pet  _ on the floor by Fish’s side.

 

“You -”  “ - right here.”

 

Oswald has to blink hard to draw himself back into the present.

 

“Huh?”

 

Victor sighs and shakes his head as if Oswald is some sort of silly child. It might have made him sneer something else at the man, if Victor had not cut the impulse short with his words.

 

“ _ You _ used to  _ kneel _ ,” Victor repeats, slower, “ right  _ here _ .”

 

Not so inadvertent, then. 

 

_ Wishful thinking.  _ Oswald wants to smash the man’s face in, or sink through the floor and into the sewers, anything so that he won’t have to face someone like Victor, who  _ knows  _ and  _ remembers  _ and is clearly about to use it  _ against  _ him.

 

Victor steps to the left pointedly, then spins around as if he’s showing off his attire. He can’t be, as he wears much the same thing every day, at least every day that Oswald has seen him.

 

Oswald’s face falls. “You remember that?”

 

“We weren’t exactly introduced - I was still pretty new to the  _ biz  _ myself then -  but yes.”

 

Oswald can hear his own teeth gnaw.

 

“Yes, well.”

 

His voice is tight and he can’t figure out how to undo it. The strings of his vocal cords are wound too tightly. He supposes there’s nothing to be done about it, not now.

 

“Who would have thought that  _ I _ , Oswald Cobblepot, would one day own  _ this  _ club _?”  _ Oswald gestures so emphatically with his arms that he nearly loses his balance. “Would be  _ your BOSS _ ?”

 

He spits the word out, and wishes he hadn’t slurred so much.

 

What’s worse is Victor doesn’t react to the bait, and Oswald is ever more frustrated.

 

“I killed someone that night,” Victor reminds him quietly instead, much too calm for Oswald’s liking. “I carved his fat throat right in front of you and Fish, and fifteen other people. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. Despite the way everyone in the room counted you out, considered you to be nothing more than a piece of furniture, you  _ watched _ , and I knew there was something about you.”

 

Oswald finds his gaze drifting back over to the other man despite himself.

 

“I don’t think there’s much purpose in life, generally,” Victor explains, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling. “But of all the people that room, except for Fish maybe, you seemed to have one. I don’t get it, but I can recognize it. I knew you were going to bring something  _ waaay  _ bigger to the table than being some sort of ...umbrella bitch.”

 

Suddenly, Victor shrugs as if it doesn’t matter at all.

 

“Well, I  wasn’t surprised to hear you owned the floor you used to kneel on.”

 

There’s a rush in Oswald’s ears not unlike that of a waterfall. He’s warm, from his chest to his toes and he finds it suddenly very difficult to stand even with the help of the chair.

 

_ I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t surprised. _ It drills itself into his head and he thinks might be blushing, but considering how drunk he is, it could be nothing. He chooses to think of it as the latter, because he’s already exposed too much of himself to Zsasz tonight as it is.

 

“Come on, Boss.”

 

The sound of another sigh being heaved fills Oswald’s ears, and then an instant later, he is being grabbed around the waist and hoisted off the ground.   
  


“If you let your guard down like this too often, you won’t last long.”

 

The words echoed in Oswald’s head, spinning around in his head and making him even dizzier than he was the instant previous. 

 

_ You won’t last long. You won’t last long. You won’t last long. _

 

He doesn’t remember the hallways around him, possibly because he has his eyes closed the whole way there. Considering he’s draped over Victor’s shoulder, it’s probably for the best - he’s not sure how to handle being this intoxicated  _ and  _ practically upside down.

 

The impact as he hits the bed is enough to jolt him into sobriety, at least for a few seconds. Long enough to be pissed off by the words Victor chooses next.

 

“Take this aspirin. You’re a bitch when you’re hungover.”

 

“Nuh uh.”

 

Not, however, sober enough to formulate an adequate insult in return. 

 

“Did you really just - ? “Victor’s hairless brows raise, and he mocks Oswald next. “Yeah  _ huh _ .”

 

“Fuck off,” he mutters, his hand reaching out for the edge of the blanket so that he can pull it over himself and suffocate himself in a pillow or something.

 

“Open your fucking mouth.”

 

The tone pulls at a string in his gut that he’d thought was long severed. Oswald is cowed by the sensation, which he’d thought was behind him. Even with Jim, it was never quite like this - possibly because the man had never shown anything but contempt for him. 

 

He decides that it’s best to just sleep and hope he forgets about all of this, despite having never been the sort to get  _ blackout  _ drunk. He’s never counted himself as unfortunate for such a thing before.

 

“Can’t you just -?” Oswald groans, turning his face away. “This isn’t your  _ job _ , Victor.”

 

“My job is whatever I want it to be,” Victor tells him without preamble, then proceeds to grasp Oswald’s chin and yank it back in his direction. “Right now, I’ve decided it’s to make you open your mouth and swallow the damn pill so that you don’t give me hell in the morning.”

 

With that, he wraps his hand more solidly around Oswald’s chin and pushes his thumb and index finger hard into the joints of his jaw.

 

“ _ Ah - _ ”

 

It hurts badly, tingling all the way up through his ears. He doesn’t let up on the grip until Oswald allows his mouth to go slack so that the pressure is finally relieved. His heart is the only thing he can hear, thundering in his ears as he reaches up to grab Victor’s wrist, as if it might help.

 

It doesn’t. 

 

Victor is painfully strong and he knows what he’s doing.

 

Oswald is terrified and helpless, but the pit of his stomach has coiled so tightly with heat that he’s sure that, in addition to the alcohol, he’ll pass out from heat stroke indoors. He’s on fire, but he can’t pinpoint the origin, as both his head and his heart seem equally likely - right now, they are on par with one another in their idiocy. 

 

He blushes so furiously he sees red when two fingers, with a single pill pinned between the middle and index fingertips, presses into his mouth and against his tongue.

 

“Ghh -”

 

“ _ Hush _ .”

 

It’s not gentle, but then nothing about Victor Zsasz is. Oswald hushes, if only to save himself the embarrassment of grunting like an animal.

 

The fingers leave, dragging the pad of a finger over the bottom row of his teeth. A splash of the wine comes next ( _ he’d brought it with him?) _ and Oswald doesn’t think Victor even intends to keep it neat - but then, Oswald can’t think much of anything right now.

 

“Swallow.”

 

Oswald does, and is embarrassed with himself for not hesitating. It’s not as easy to swallow with one’s mouth open, but it’s possible, and he manages it. 

 

The fingers come back again, and this time Oswald’s tongue lifts to meet them on impulse, as if to accept the next pill. Accept the next - anything, apparently. What is  _ wrong  _ with him?

 

_ Nothing is wrong with you,  _ a voice in his head says, but there’s a derisive tone to it this time, not his mother’s sweet coo. It sounds like Victor instead.

 

His eyes flicker wider when he meets just the skin of Victor’s fingers.

 

No pill this time.

 

His heart leaps so high into his throat that it doesn’t seem farfetched that it might become acquainted with Victor’s neatly trimmed fingernails. 

 

The two fingers press more solidly against Oswald’s tongue, and in the same instant he releases the grip he has on Oswald’s jaw keeping his mouth open. His hand moves instead to to the side, still keeping his head in place though, the gloved hand fitting into the curve of Oswald’s cheekbone.

 

His head is murky from expensive, delicious poison, so while he knows there exists a sober him that kind of wants to  _ sever the presumptive fingers with his teeth _ \- this him, and possibly an array of other hims inside his head...does not. What they want, what he wants, is not clear.

 

Or, rather, it  _ is _ , but he refuses to see it with any clarity that might give it precedence.

 

He’s been introduced this place within himself before. Had been slowly coming to accept it, once upon a time, until it had become too much, too real. Now, a year after he’d forfeited the concept and betrayed the woman that had cultivated it ( _ planted it too, maybe, or was it really all him?) _ , it is knocking at the forefront of his mind once more.

 

This isn’t in the plan. This is not supposed to happen again, even if Victor is abetting him in conquests rather than stealing them for himself. Even if this is decidedly more fair and feasible than what he’d had with Fish. Even then. 

 

He keeps his mouth open, albeit not as wide. His chin begins to quiver.

 

“You gonna bite me?”

 

The tone is playful, expectant. Fingertips draw a circle over Oswald’s tastebuds.

 

Oswald blames what he proceeds to do on the alcohol, on Victor, on Fish, on Jim, on everyone else in Gotham but himself. He finds himself leaning into the hand that is meant to be a menacing reminder of the previous hold, pushes his cheekbone against Victor’s calloused palm, and -

 

\- and then, he closes his lips around the base of the digits, raising his gaze upward to search the pale face watching him. His vision is still out of focus and his bedroom is lit only by the fireplace on the other end of the room anyway, which isn’t helping. 

 

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to see the man when he can feel him.

 

It’s been over a year since he’s been touched this thoughtfully, by anyone other than his mother. There are sexual connotations that are not lost on him to this touch, but he’s much too preoccupied with the smooth  patterns Victor is tracing over the center of his tongue. 

 

For an instant it seems as though Victor is sinking them further inside his mouth. As soon as the notion crosses Oswald’s mind, instead they are retreating, coated with his saliva. 

 

The hands withdraw and Oswald blinks rapidly, catching his breath. He almost convinces himself it’s a hallucination, but the salt on his tongue  betrays him. 

 

Oswald can still  _ taste  _ him. 

 

In the weak lighting, Victor’s white teeth in the shape of a smile stand out like a beacon. Oswald thinks he sees the man waggle his fingers in farewell, but he closes his eyes to the image too quickly. He can’t be sure. Doesn’t want to be sure. Wants Victor to disappear without a word so he can tell himself this was all just a dream in the morning.

 

“Nighty night,  _ Boss _ .” 

 

-

 

-

 

In retrospect, Oswald will compare Victor and Fish in his mind. He will recall that while it took over a week for her to call him back to her side, Victor came to him the very next afternoon. He walks into Oswald’s dining hall without a word, without knocking, his heavy boots falling on the hardwood loudly enough to draw Oswald out of his reading abruptly. 

 

Tap tap  _ tap _ . Oswald strikes the notebook in his lap with the tip of his ballpoint pen and frowns at the figure of Victor before him, but denies the memory that wants to nudge into the forefront of his mind. 

 

Even so, he presses his tongue to his teeth without thinking. He bites it next to erase the non-thought.

 

“What is it, Victor?” He asks cordially, but presses the tip of the pen a little too hard against the paper. The ink bleeds and ruins a word, but it hardly matters. It’s all just to help him visualize his future plans anyway. He’ll toss it into the fire as soon as he’s done.

 

He’d turned to writing things in a notebook rather than making collages, which take much more time and are harder to hide from his abundant roaming henchmen. Though, Oswald likes the pictures, has always been a rather visual planner, so he finds himself doodling caricatures from time to time. 

 

Especially of Jim’s frowning idiot face, bad hair cut, and too-large nose. What a fucking imbecile. His wacko ex-girlfriend made an appearance a time or two, Falcone, Maroni, and Fish of course, as well as a number of other figures that may be of use to him later.

 

Victor shrugs exaggeratedly, smiling a smile as pale as the rest of his face. From this distance, it’s almost difficult to tell where his teeth end and his lips begin.

 

Almost immediately after, Oswald decides he will not think about Victor’s lips, even in passing.

 

“I’m bored.”

 

“I don’t have anything for you,” Oswald tells him, turning back to the paper, though he can’t seem to concentrate on the words with the other man’s eyes boring into him. “Things are running smoothly right now. You’re dismissed until I need you again.”

 

Oswald turns his face back to his paper, but can see that Victor has not moved from his place near the other end of the table. He doesn't let himself look up again. Perhaps if he ignores the man for long enough,  he'll get bored and just… go.

 

Instead,  Zsasz slowly begins to approach Oswald, with slow and steady steps that are paced like the ticking of a clock. Oswald feels a sense of dread that is probably similar to what Victor’s victims feel when he hears them coming.

 

He pretends that he feels nothing, however, pretends that his heart isn’t a terrible drumbeat in his ears. The words on the page aren’t registering, but he sets his eyes on them

 

“Stand up.”

 

The order catches him off guard - he jumps a little, but hopes that turning a foul look in the man’s direction will cover it up.

 

“ _ Excuse _ me?”

 

“Stand up,” Victor repeats, less patiently. He’s tall even when Oswald is not sitting down, so in this position he’s positively towering. Oswald’s gut twists within him, anxiety working it’s way into his throat. “I wasn’t aware that your hearing was damaged as well as your leg.”

 

“I’m your _boss_ ,” Oswald bites back.

 

“I thought Falcone was my boss,” Victor returns, and Oswald blanches slightly. He remembers the night before, but the specifics don’t come back to him unless prompted. Victor seems perfectly fine with prompting him. Had a simple drunken action ruined everything?

 

“Listen,  _ friend _ , I don’t know what you think you’re trying to  _ accomplish  _ \- “

 

“ _ Shhhh.”  _ Those hands are back, gloved this time, drawing Oswald’s face into his hands. His heart stutters in his chest; the tone of voice and the feel of leather over his skin is more appealing than he’d anticipated. “We  _ are  _ friends, and I just want us to be  _ closer.  _ So, c’mon, stand up for me.”

 

Oswald hesitates, glancing at the door. It’s closed, no one would dare enter without knocking and it’s too early in the day for most to be lingering around anyway.

 

After several seconds, Oswald purses his lips and pushes himself out of his seat. In the same motion, Victor’s hands slide from their place at his jaw down the front of his chest, and Oswald instinctively wants to sink back into the chair.

 

_ Fine, I’ve done it,  _ Oswald wants to spit at him, but his nerves seem to have wound something tightly around his voicebox. He settles his gaze at Victor’s chin.

 

“This way,” Victor says, and then is grasping him by the lapels and moving him bodily. It’s a smooth motion, and since Oswald isn’t exactly participating in it, his leg doesn’t hinder him at all.

 

He’s tugged a few feet away from the chair, and the fire, closer to the edge of the room. Farther away from the windows that, though opaque, still have their dangers.

 

It’s almost thoughtful, Oswald notes, but is irritated at himself for entertaining the idea.

 

“Turn around.”

 

Oswald glances up at the man this time, meeting his eyes and furrowing his brow. This is the part he hates, the not knowing, because he is usually the bearer of knowledge and both Fish and Victor both have now proven they like to keep him in the dark. Even so, he can think of nothing else but this moment outside of Victor’s words, and even though the notion is horrifying, it’s also...nice.

 

No, that’s the wrong word, there’s nothing  _ nice  _ about it. Nothing good, or right, but somehow he still finds himself doing as told. He swallows, and turns around so that he’s facing the wall.

 

The next demand comes as soon as he’s completed the previous.

 

“Put your hands behind your back.”

 

This time he tenses, the implications of helplessness forcing uncertainty into his head. 

 

“Are you -”

 

“If you want me to stop,” Victor murmurs, his mouth suddenly at Oswald’s ear. “say so.”

 

Oswald’s chest coils tightly “How do I know if I want you to stop if I don’t know what you’re doing?”

 

“Play coy all you like, Boss.”

 

No sooner does Oswald let his hands meet at the small of his back does something clasp around his wrists firmly. Even though a shot of panic runs up his spine, so does it’s twin, arousal. He gives an experimental pull at the leather binds, but there is very little give.

 

He finds himself waiting the next order for several long moments, and just as he’s about to ask what Victor  _ wants,  _ for the love of  _ God,  _ he finds himself being turned around by strong hands. It’s an easy motion that brings him to face Victor again, and the one that follows puts his back against the wall with a muted thud. His arms are trapped between his body and the wall, which isn’t exactly comfortable, but Oswald’s attention is drawn away from that to the man before him.

 

“You like that,” Victor points out, “Being told what to do.”

 

“...Maybe,” Oswald responds, a little too breathless for his liking.

 

“This,” Victor hisses, and before Oswald is at all prepared for it, there’s hand moving smoothly, solidly up the inside of his leg. Then cupping him so firmly he is up on his toes, arching at the heat that is suddenly pulsing through him. “feels like more than a  _ maybe _ , Boss.”

 

Oswald grits his teeth, his arms straining to shoot forward, to  _ stop  _ him before his legs give out and he humiliates himself even further.

 

“Tell me.” 

 

Victor palms him through his trousers and Oswald aches so badly that he thinks he might actually cry, which would be worse than falling down. Oswald closes his eyes in an attempt to gather himself but Victor doesn’t let him,  wraps his hand more firmly around Oswald, squeezing and stroking through two layers of fabric.

 

Oswald opens his eyes then, whining in the back of his throat as he backs himself up into the wall. He’s shying away, pressing back against the unforgiving plain of wood and his eyes sting at the need that’s building up in the base of his stomach. This is pitiful, he’s acting  _ pitiful  _ and he should be able to just tell Victor to get the fuck away from him or just  _ do  _ it, but the words don’t seem to exist right now.

 

Victor demands again, more clearly, “Tell me what you  _ like _ .”

 

“That isn’t -” Oswald’s voice is betraying him. The statement isn’t as harsh as he wants it to be, and in fact breaks in the middle. “-a- any of your  _ business _ .”

 

“I just made it my business, Boss, now answer the question.” There’s the snap and shuffle of cloth. Oswald thinks the man has taken off his gloves, but if he thinks too much about  _ why  _ he may end up panicking even more thoroughly.

 

Before Oswald can come up with another clever retort (maybe he’ll be able to come up with one that’s reminiscent of a preteen this time instead, what is  _ wrong  _ with him?), Zsasz is yanking open his belt and pulling down his zipper and - 

 

Oh,  _ no.  _ Dear God, Oswald won’t be able to handle that; Victor is already handling him, already making him want to climb out of his own traitorous flesh. 

 

“Wait  -” Oswald’s nails claw at the wood as the hand wraps around him, skin on skin, on  _ skin on skin on -  _ He loses his breath, loses his mind, and the sound he makes is so pathetic he wants to die, wants to murder someone, wants to do anything but be  _ tortured  _ like this.

 

_ But that’s what Victor does, you idiot, you should have never allowed this. _

 

“I don’t know what I’m waiting  _ for, _ ” Victor snaps at him. “You haven’t said  _ stop  _ yet, Boss, so unless you give me a good reason to wait,  _ this  _ is how I want to play today.”

 

“I don’t - oh,” Oswald clenches his eyes shut again, but that only nudges the tears that had been gathering in his lashes, making them start to slide down his cheeks. He ducks his head shamefully, gasping, arms straining again against their ties. 

 

All of him is straining really, and Victor’s grip on his cock is relentless. It’s tight and warm and the first stroke is already slightly slick with Oswald’s precum. His mouth falls open at the slow motion, Victor’s grip so strong that the friction blinds him.

 

“Go on, tell me, Boss,” Victor purrs, and this time drags his thumb over the tip of Oswald so hard he sees white. 

 

He flinches and practically sobs, his shoulders hiking up because he wants to curl into a ball but he can’t, he  _ can’t - _

 

“I- I don’t know, I don’t  _ know  _ what I like, I - don’t -  _ aghn -!” _

 

The words come out in a flurry and Oswald wants to hide so intensely, wants to burrow his head into the ground and never be looked at again if it means he can stop the torment.

 

“Oh?” 

 

Victor’s gaze is on him, he can feel it as surely as he can feel his hand around him, assessing him, possibly trying to figure out if he’s lying. Oswald’s is almost hyperventilating, his chest tight and his cock throbbing painfully. It hurts. It feels good. It’s balancing between both, and he’s not sure which he likes better, or if they are both equally terrifying.

 

“ _ Fine, _ ” Victor sighs as though exasperated, but when Oswald opens his eyes he finds that he’s smiling, his eyes bright. “I guess I’ll go easy on you for now.”

 

“Wh -  _ ahh - _ ”

 

Then he’s pumping Oswald furiously, only his precum there to easy the way. The friction is too much, pleasure and pain shooting up through his torso and down through his thighs. His hips are recoiling from the pleasure, from the sheer potency of sensation, his head falling forward and his mouth open wide. He’s shouting and whimpering, squirming because he can’t be  _ still  _ for such a thing, can’t possibly be expected to take something like this in stride.

 

He wants to grab Victor’s arm, slow him down, wants to say something,  _ anything  _ to let him Victor that this isn’t at  _ all  _ what he’d done with Fish, wasn’t what he’d prepared himself for. But his arms are bound behind him, and it’s likely the most ill-advised thing he’s ever allowed. Not that, if Victor had truly wanted, it would have made any difference - but the point is, that he did  _ allow  _ it. 

 

_ Is  _ allowing it.

 

This isn’t a good idea and he’s making a fool of himself, he knows it, he’s not sure how he’s meant to stand this amount of stimulation. It’s nothing like when he takes himself in hand; everything is a blur and there are stars etched into his eyelids as his face contorts, his entire upper body blushing hotly from his chest to his hairline. He isn’t sure how he has enough blood in his body to allow for the two polar opposite blood rushes, but he supposes that’s why he’s so light-headed.

 

Oswald is trying to bow forward again, to at least hide in Victor’s chest if he can, if this is his god damned  _ fate,  _ but as soon as he does there’s a hand wrapped around his neck and shoving him back against the wall.

 

His eyes widen, the pressure at his throat cutting off his air briefly even though the grip isn’t nearly tight enough to be a real threat. Even so, it scares him, embarrassess him, and in the same instant leaves him coming with a high-pitched, strained little shout.

 

It’s too much. 

 

Orgasm has always been a  _ little  _ too much, no matter how good the lead up feels, but this is so much worse; it leaves Oswald gasping for air, his face flushed and tear-stained, trembling all over, barely able to stand. Pleasure seems to rake it’s nails all the way down him from the inside, then wring itself out of him with every second of the aftermath, Victor stroking him until the last spasm is through.

 

Victor pulls his hand away, lifting it up to inspect his soiled hand, then reaching over for the cloth napkin folded by Oswald’s empty plate left over from lunch. 

 

He cleans his hand and Oswald tries to collect himself.

 

“That was quicker than I expected.”

 

The transition from shameful to livid is sudden and potent. Oswald’s mouth twists into a vicious sneer. How  _ dare  _ the man say such a thing? It isn’t as though he had  _ asked  _ to be taken apart, it isn’t as though he’s ever claimed to be some sort of  _ master  _ of  _ stamina,  _ it’s all Victor’s fault for  _ presuming - _

 

“Untie me  _ right now _ ,” Oswald orders, barely managing to keep his voice steady. His tone is harsh, but also hoarse and shaky.

 

“Hey.” His tone is much too light. It only makes Oswald more furious at the man, at himself. 

 

Victor tosses the rag onto the floor, but doesn’t step any closer, doesn’t acquiesce at all. He’s still ridiculing him with his eyes, Oswald  _ knows  _ it.

 

“ _ Now!” _ He shouts. Raising his voice only makes the strain in it more apparent.

 

This time he isn’t asked to turn around. Victor steps close and wraps his arms around him, hands hands brushing Oswald’s wrists as he undoes the clasps. Oswald keeps his head down, trying his best to pretend as though the man isn’t there at all, no matter if that tactic has proven a failure before.

 

Instead of stepping away Victor’s hands come up and Oswald has to stop himself from recoiling, not entirely sure what the man has planned for him now. The hands cup either side of his face, firm and calloused and scarred hands, cradling his face suddenly as if he’s fragile.

 

Oswald  _ isn’t  _ fragile, but the touch soothes him more than he cares to admit.

 

“ _ Hey, _ ” Victor murmurs again, his tone softer, though it still seems to be by design rather than due to any actual compassion. His thumbs wipe away the tears that are still clinging to his lashes and Oswald is still in his hold, peering back into Victor’s dark ( _ empty)  _ eyes uncertainly.

 

“You did good, Boss.”

 

Oswald shoves the man back and turns away sharply, but not before his entire face is turning red all over again, just after he’d managed to keep the blushing at bay. His entire stomach seems to twist in on itself, his chest swelling with sunlight and -

 

_ UGH,  _ what the hell is  _ wrong  _ with him that he could be so affected by something so  _ simple  _ and  _ dumb  _ and obviously  _ manufactured.  _

 

“Yeah,” Victor laughs loudly, turning to leave. “I  _ thought  _ that might do the trick.”

 

-

  
  



	3. Zsasz

-

-

-

 _“None of us ever find enough kindness in the world, do we?”  -_ Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

-

-

-

 

When Fish is dead, and Falcone is out of Gotham, Oswald can truly rest easily on his newly acquired throne.

 

The lower bosses are having a hard time understanding that some crippled little man from the gutter is now the new Don, but Oswald sends Victor - and a few other skilled people - to gain their loyalty. Or, if necessary, the loyalty of their successor.

 

Jim Gordon continues to be a distraction, one with decreasing value,  which Victor Zsasz likes to poke fun at him about. All the while he goes about distracting him from his distraction, though after that first afternoon he goes about it with a little more subtlety.

 

While Zsasz establishes himself as a decidedly more sexual person than Fish had, he also seems more interested in the - well, _weird_ aspect of all this. The third meeting consists of Victor inviting ( _pulling)_ Penguin into his room to display all of the equipment he’s collected over the years, from collars and shackles to flogs and clamps. He holds each up, and explains what are for, and seems to look for a response to each one. Oswald looks on as impassively as possible, though he can’t help but scoff at a few of the more ridiculous items - the cherry red ball gag, for instance, is a little comical.

 

That night, Oswald doesn’t let Victor use any of the array of paraphernalia. So instead, the man drags his fingertips down the outlines of his body, telling Oswald to be still and silent as he does so. It’s overtly intimate, even though there should be nothing particularly invasive about fingers trailing over the outside of thighs, and hips, and waist, then his arms, and neck.

 

Before he leaves, Victor pulls his hair briefly just to hear Oswald gasp, then kicks him out for the night.

 

It pisses Oswald off before he decides that he firmly does, not, care.

 

Victor is, unsurprisingly, not the most affectionate person, not even in the way Fish had been. He’s not even much into kissing on the mouth, but when he finds out the way Oswald’s toes curl when he drags his tongue over his ear, he takes note and uses that on him from time to time as a ( _reward)_ tool of persuasion. When he discovers that teeth will do the same trick though, he switches tactics.

 

In addition to his enjoyment of hurting people in general, Oswald learns that Zsasz also likes hurting _him_ \- or rather, whatever partner he chooses for himself at the time. Usually, that’s women, Oswald observes, but usually not small things he feels like he can break in half - and though he doesn’t ever ask, Oswald wonders where his appeal is.

 

He knows he’s not physically intimidating. Victor seems to like to just _putting_ him places, wherever he damn well pleases, so that should be evidence enough that his stature is satisfactory to him. Despite this,  Oswald is not the sort to ignore the possibility of ulterior motives, and Victor isn't the sort to inspire blind trust.

 

Perhaps it’s his social status that makes up for what he lacks in looks and charisma and experience.

 

When he thinks about it, he remembers that the cracks in Victor’s loyalty toward Falcone had started forming when Liza became more important to him to respect. More important than his _empire._

 

Through his own deductive prowess, and his impatience with his own naivety, Oswald slowly starts to learn what to expect from his employee.

 

Oswald learns something about himself in a few short weeks; he...isn’t completely averse to receiving the pain that Victor is eager to deliver, as long as it’s controlled, as long as he knows how to prepare himself for it.

 

He finds that pain is much easier for him to handle than pleasure, and he’s hardly gotten this far in life being unable to take a beating.

 

Not that Victor _beats_ him - that would be ineloquent. He likes biting more than kissing, and enjoys shoving Oswald against whatever surface is viable at the time. He likes bruising his arms and wrists and thighs and hips, grabbing whatever place is available to him at the moment and squeezing, _hard_. He likes tying him into place (a little more intricately each time, Oswald finds) and pulling his hair rather than stroking it.

 

It takes some getting used to, and he's never sure if he likes it or if he's just grown accustomed, but it gives Oswald the level of intimacy that he needs to find this worth continuing. Not that he says this is why he’s allowing it - in fact, were anyone looking from the outside he might seem a reluctant participant in all of this.

 

That is how he likes it.

 

With Victor,  he doesn't have to pretend to be eager,  or to show it when he is, which he is secretly,  endlessly grateful for.  He is not entirely sure whether there’s truth in his begrudging attitude or not, though he supposes he’s enabling himself either way.

 

-

 

Victor doesn’t insist on making Oswald come again for some time.

 

Or else, perhaps he has no interest in it - they hardly have heart to hearts about their respective motives, and Oswald is fine with that.

 

Tonight Victor is circling him like a shark after dragging him to his quarters. He likes to show up at random times when he's alone,  and pull Oswald away from whatever he’s doing for their little...whatever this is.

 

“Don't speak until I say so.”

 

The voice is vaguely chilling.

 

He likes when Oswald is a little scared of him, likes to bring him to the edge of suspense, to watch anticipation build, likes to strip him to nothing with his eyes before he does anything at all. Despite how obvious it all is, Oswald is affected by it. His heart isn’t racing, but it’s loud enough so that he can hear its every beat within himself, irritatingly aware of his own rising nerves.

 

Oswald hates this part, and after a full minute, this is growing boring.

 

He begins to open his mouth as though he's  about to say something, but before he can,  Victor strikes him across the face with the palm of his hand.

 

Oswald gasps along with the sharp sound the contact makes, but it doesn’t send him staggering at least.  He turns back on Victor furiously, putting a hand to the stinging skin.

 

“How _dare_ y-”

 

“Oh _please_ ,” Victor interrupts, snorting and gripping Owald’s chin. “That was barely anything, and you said - I quote - ‘I suppose a little pain wouldn’t hurt’. It was your pride I injured just then, didn’t I?”

 

The reminder of his own words makes Oswald’s neck tighten and his ears flush with heat. As if that’s something he needed to hear out loud.

 

“I didn’t say you could slap me across the face.” He’s been slapped across the face countless times in his life, and several times in the past year by those with no respect for him. If Victor is belittling him, he’ll leave, he isn’t _here_ for that - he can get that outside these doors, practically anywhere else.

 

Victor deadpans.

 

“Well, you didn’t say I _couldn’t_ .” He goes from looking put out and mildly irritated to grinning in amusement, raking his eyes over Oswald slowly. “You’re actually a _needy_ little thing, aren’t you?”

 

His response is immediate. “I am _not._ ”

 

“Are so,” Victor shoots back, suddenly jovial again, in that strange and somehow fake way that sets Oswald on edge.  “As I was saying -”

 

“You weren’t saying _anything._ ”

 

“If you interrupt me again, Boss,” Victor holds up a hand to say _stop_ , and Oswald’s jaw snaps shut of it’s own accord. “I’ll slap you however I like, and it won’t be part of our little game.”

 

Oswald glowers as wickedly as he can, but doesn’t speak

 

“It’s unfortunate you can’t really kneel anymore, for any prolonged period of time.” Victor says, tilting his head and then gesturing to the coffee table a few feet away, in between two leather loveseats. “But I like to take things as they are. So _sit_.”

 

He’d not ventured that far into Zsasz’s quarters yet; the coffee table was suspiciously close to the bed, and it made his stomach drop slightly.

 

“Don’t look so worried, Boss,” Victor  says, nudging him in the direction he wants him to move. “I think I’ve got a good handle on what you might like. I'm _good_ at this. You’re gonna have to trust me.”

 

“Not possible,” Oswald mutters under his breath even as he limps over to the table. If Victor hears him, he doesn’t bother to respond. He turns around and seats himself carefully to make sure the long table won’t tip, but it’s heavy on both ends. When he does so, he finds that he is about at the level that he’d be if he were to get on his knees, which he supposes is victor’s reasoning.

 

“Perfect,” Victor says, peering down his nose at him.

 

Oswald’s heart thuds hard once and seems to skip within himself. He’s not sure if the man is talking to him, exactly, but the word sounds good in his ears.

 

The path that Victor’s hand’s take his familiar.

 

His gloves are already off in preparation for whatever he has planned, and Oswald’s mind races with the possibilities - until it doesn’t.

 

Namely, when Victor’s hands smooth over his neck and up his jaw and two fingers press to his lips not unlike that first night.

 

Blinking a few times to clear his head, Oswald parts his lips and lets the fingers press into Oswald’s mouth all over again. This time they stay longer, curling a little more, pressing a little deeper, until Oswald is starting to salivate. His other hand smooths over his jaw, over his throat to remind him of before, of the grip that was there. Oswald feels a shudder rake through him all the way down to his toes and he swallows against the hand hard.

 

This time when the fingers paint smooth lines over his tongue, Oswald finds himself suckling enough to keep from leaking spit down his chin. Victor seems to like that by the growl he gives, giving a short thrust of his fingers. His knuckles graze Oswald’s teeth,  but the man doesn't seem to mind in the least.

 

“What a greedy mouth you have. ” Victor’s voice breaks through a calm fog, but also seems to be the source of it somehow.

 

“We’re going to go a bit further now.”

 

The sound of a zipper makes Oswald’s eyes snap open, sudden panic vibrating through him, ricocheting in his brain.

 

“Shhh, c’mon,” He mutters, wrapping a hand around the engorged length of himself. “Be a good boy and open up for me.”

 

_Be a good boy._

 

There is a lovely warmth that blooms in his chest at the words, which is so unadulterated that he almost wants to launch himself off of the coffee table and out the door. Or, conversely, do whatever the hell Victor wants to get receive it again. The two opposing ideas clash in his head, like metal striking metal, and Oswald freezes instead, at a loss.

 

“It’s just like the fingers,” Victor murmurs, and Oswald can hear the smile in his voice, and wonders if he’s being mocked. It doesn’t sound like he is, but Victor has a way of saying the proper things to get what he wants even if there’s no honesty behind it.

 

He feels smooth, hot flesh at his cheek, and he knows that Victor’s length is pressing against the line of his cheekbone. Oswald’s face warms and his stomach sinks.

 

 _No,_ Oswald thinks vehemently, _it isn’t. Obviously it isn’t the same._ He snaps his gaze up and opens his mouth to say so, or perhaps something even more vicious, but when he peers up at the man, he falters.

 

Victor’s eyes are fire as they peer down at him, his hands forming tight fists in his hair, and Oswald is sure that no one has ever looked at him in such  a way. There’s nothing ridiculing in the gaze, not this time, and instead there’s a hunger that’s almost fury, a want that is so fierce, so directed right at him that it’s _good._ It’s nerve-wracking, his gut flips, but the uncertainty in his core is overcome by wanting Victor to keep looking at him like he’s the only thing in the room that matters (even if it also looks like he’s going to be devoured).

 

His lips, which had been parted and ready to speak, instead open a little more. Oswald turns his head slowly and very slightly. He watches Victor’s eyes flash just for _him_  when he closes his mouth around the tip of him, and feels hot coal drop in the pit of his stomach. Oswald clenches the fabric of his trousers at his knees and closes his eyes tightly as he eases onto him a little more.

 

“Fuck, yes, that’s it,” Zsasz growls, and wastes no more time.

 

He curls a hand around the back of Oswald’s neck, and shifts forward, sliding farther in along Oswald’s tongue. His cock is warmer than his fingers, thicker, and reaches deeper along his tongue, and while Oswald doesn’t particularly like or dislike the taste of him, there are parts of his that he can’t help but enjoy. The attention on him, all of Victor’s focus completely dependent on the press of his tongue, or the degree of pressure when he sucks.

 

There’s no pleasure for him to stand himself, and despite how vulnerable he feels on one hand, there’s a degree of underlying power on the other. He’s holding Zsasz between his teeth _literally_ , he’s the one creating that glint in his eyes, however paralyzing it may be - it’s all Oswald’s.

 

His jaw is already starting to ache, and when his cock presses deep enough to brush his larynx, his mouth twitches closed and his teeth scrape against the underside.

 

The hand in his hair tightens painfully. For a split second he expects a negative reaction ( he’s already prepared to snarl something about how the man shouldn’t expect him to do this _perfectly)_ but instead Victor made a feral sound that vibrated in his chest and sounds like _approval._

 

“Wider,” He hisses, and pushes back Oswald’ head, making his mouth fall open more as he presses in, this time more than just flirting with the entrance to Oswald’s throat.

 

“Ghnk-” Oswald gags around him, his hands shooting to Victor’s thighs, gripping the fabric there and ready to push. The length retreats, letting him breathe, then presses forward again even more firmly; Oswald is only slightly more prepared for it.

 

“That’s why I didn’t tie your hands this time, Boss.” Victor beamed down at him. “That’d be way too tempting to just... _take._ ”

 

However humiliating it is, however much Oswald will _deny_ he’s ever allowed such a thing, it’s strangely the nicest thing that he and Victor have done together. Once he gets use to the motion, there’s just the ache in his jaw and the slide of silken skin over his tongue and  hands in his hair and Victor’s voice above him. He might even go so far to think he enjoys it, enjoys not having to withstand his own too-intense need, enjoys being the center of Victor’s entire _world._

 

At least for as long as he’s in Oswald’s mouth.

 

“Fucking knew it, _look_ at you take it for me, fucking _perfect._ ”

 

It is, decidedly, closer to perfect than he’d ever expected.

 

Even when he breaches his throat, when he has to push at the man’s thighs so he can pull off of him a _breath,_ lips wet and swollen. Even trembling slightly and tearing up from the lack of air, and even when when it gets rough, even when he pulls him down until his nose touches his lower stomach and tells him to be good and hold for him _that’s it_ , even when Victor demands he _swallow_ at the end and keeps his head in place to make sure he does -

 

-even then. He’s blushing so hard he’s sure steam will start to rise out of his ears, but the next time they try it a few days later, he pretends to hesitate  but he lets Victor bind him however he likes beforehand.

 

-

 

Weeks pass, and his hold on Gotham grows more secure. He converts more lower bosses, and sends Victor to kill a few more of those who refuse to adapt. His empire and wealth continues to grow. All is well for quite some time, and with the stability of his crime career comes an indisputable comfort of self.

 

Their sessions continue, and each time Victor likes to push him somehow. There’s always a new way to tie him up, or down. He uses a blindfold once, binds his wrists to his ankles in what Zsasz calls a ‘hogtie’, disgustingly, but Oswald allows it if it means he’ll use his mouth and call him _perfect_ again.

 

He isn’t entirely sure what this does for him. There’s something that happens, someplace he _goes_ when it’s good - just for a minute or two, sometimes a little longer - and everything seems to be so much better, easier when it happens.

 

It’s the feeling of standing on top of that roof when he’d known Gotham was his. It was the feeling of spinning around in his new club, the security of knowing everything in site was his, and that nothing was going to rip it out from beneath him. It’s almost like being pleasantly drunk, so much so that a few weeks in, after Victor has spent himself into Oswald’s mouth and then untied him, he lies there just breathing on the chaise for close to an hour.

 

The next night it happens, a few days later, Victor uses a razor to carve delicate patterns over his left shoulder, rubbing his back and cooing at him to keep still.

 

Oswald doesn’t know why he does. He awakes the next morning and is pissed off enough to find Zsasz and grab him by the front of his shirt and curse at him. Victor just raises his eyebrows like he’s amused with him, and shrugs.

 

“You said no _permanent_ damage - those won’t even leave a scar. Didn’t seem to have any objections. I asked for your safe word and you just _snuggled_ me. But fine. I won’t do it again, Princess.”

 

He storms out then, slamming the door, and murders the first person to fuck up later on that night.

 

-.

 

Oswald waits until the scabs flake and fall off before he lets Victor play with him again. It doesn’t take long - they’re incredibly shallow cuts, which he can be grateful for. He already has enough scars for his mother to worry about when he visits her.

 

“I decided to make it up to you, Boss,” Victor says, though he doesn’t actually apologize, and in fact doesn’t seem all that apologetic.

 

“Right,” Oswald replies, entering and looking around at what Victor has laid out.

 

All that’s different seems to be different as that previously bare chain on the wall now have a pair of thick leather cuffs hanging from them. On the floor there’s another one, just _one,_ Oswald notes, attached to a D-ring that is bolted to the floor.

 

Otherwise, there’s nothing. No blindfold, no razor, no gag, or whips. Well, the man _had_ said this was for him, to make up for the cuts.

 

“With that leg of yours it’s a bit tricky,” Victor explains, sliding a hand along Oswald’s bare arm and then taking him by the wrist. He lifts it over his head, and Oswald’s heart stammers against his ribs but he allows the leather to be secured around his wrist. “ _Position_ wise.”

 

“I’m sorry my leg is such a bother for _you,_ ” Oswald drawls, mildly uneasy as Victor takes him by the wrist and pulls him over to the wall. He turns him around when he gets there with a tenderness that makes Oswald mildly suspicious.

 

“Poor, poor, King of Gotham,” Victor smirks at him, and smooths his hands over Oswald’s side. “It’s not a bother, it just inspires me to get a little _creative._ ”

 

It’s then that he pulls open Oswald’s jacket, hands sliding up his chest and then over his shoulders, easily slipping his jacket off. He folds it, and sets it on the back of a nearby armchair.

 

“Unbutton your vest and shirt,” Victor orders quietly, and his arms seem as though they are being  lifted by an invisible thread.

 

As soon as Oswald lifts his hands to start unsteadily pulling at the buttons, Victor’s hands are pulling at his buckle so aggressively he yanks Oswald’s hips forward. Oswald’s breath hitches and he looks down at them, his fingers halting on the second button of his vest.

 

“Are you taking off -?”

 

“Don’t get shy now on me, Boss,” Victor’s grin is sharp but his hands are gripping his hips, thumbs grinding into Oswald’s hip bones before dipping beneath the fabric and tugging until his trousers and underwear pool at his feet.

 

He is reminded suddenly of Fish’s gaze, on the three occasions she forced him to strip for her. Victor is decidedly more proactive, because when he’s done shoving the fabric down he moves to unbutton Oswald’s vest and shirt for him.

 

Victor huffs, “Fine, hands up.”

 

Oswald swallows, and considers leaving.

 

“C’mon, hands _up,_ ” Victor says again, softer yet more insistent. “I want to see you. Don’t you want to let me see you?”

 

Oswald doesn’t.

 

Or else, he’s not sure if he does. Still, Victor wants him, wants to _see_ him, _him._ Already there’s  lower, wanting tone to Victor’s voice. He wants more of it. Wants that directed at him, because he _deserves_ it, doesn’t he? He deserves to be looked at like this, to be spoken to like this, after years of jeers and insults, of disrespect.

 

He doesn’t want this intrinsically, not from the center of his being, not in the way that makes Victor’s eyes turn molten - but the way that he wants it is still valid, isn’t it? Isn’t it okay that even though the idea of this makes him feel a bit sick, the fact that someone wants him is enough to make him want them?

 

Or at least, make him want to appease them so they'll want him more?

 

There’s nothing wrong with that.

 

There’s nothing wrong with _him._

 

The last of his clothing is pulled away from him, and Oswald realizes that at some point he’d put his hands above his head because they have to be moved again briefly to get his vest and shirt off. Victor takes the wrists in his hands and draws up above higher, up, slowly, staring Oswald down in that eerie way of his as he does. He imagines that he can feel the cuts on his shoulder when they’re lifted up high and the leather is secured around him.

 

Then, he startles Oswald by sinking to him knees.

 

“I thought so,” Victor says lowly. “What a pretty little cock you have.”

 

He feels his nostrils flare and his leg kicks out suddenly to punish the man, shouting. Victor catches his ankle, and he’s left to support himself on his bad leg, meaning that he sags and the bindings pull tight at his wrist.

 

“If you think I’m just going to - !”

 

“ _Relax_ , Boss, that was a _compliment_ ,” Victor’s teeth seem too white as he sinks down to his knees, surprising Oswald into silence. He pulls off Oswald’s shoes and socks carefully, then eases his legs out of the fabric that is still bunched up at his feet. “I _know_ you can take a compliment.”

 

His ears grow hot and likely extremely red at the knowing expression on Victor’s face. He’s already at half mast and it must be just from the way Victor is speaking to him ( _how can that be?)_ because he’s really barely touched him at all.

 

“ - What _ever_.”

 

Victor chuckles at him and releases his good ankle so he can set it down.

 

Leather is secured around the very same ankle a moment later, and Oswald remembers that there _is_ just one and thinks to ask why. He doesn’t have to bother, because soon Victor is gripping his bad leg and hoisting it up and over his shoulder, having no apparent plans to rise from his knees.

 

The spread of his legs leaves him open, much _too_ open, and Oswald feels a wave of self-consciousness flood over him abruptly.

 

“What are - “

 

“Shh,” Victor shushes him softly, biting down on the flesh of his inner thigh and making Oswald jerk at the sharp twinge of pain.

 

He isn’t sure why it didn’t happen immediately, when Victor first began undressing him. This weight in the pit of his stomach that won’t leave, a gnawing uncertainty that stretches all the way up through him even though Victor’s teeth feel good, even though he’s only hardening more under every touch.

 

In reality, it probably has something to do with the fact that Oswald has never equated nudity with sexuality. He baths  in front of his mother. He’s worked in in a theatre where actors and dancers walked around naked, or close to it, backstage. Fish had reinforced his presumption by having him strip down to nothing and not touching him at all. This, he’d thought, was just an exercise in exposure - another way for Victor to exert his control.

 

It was more than that, though, and soon the man teeth are scraping over the tender flesh of his testicles and Oswald is lit up with sensation.

 

“ _Victor,”_ He gasps, pulling at his his binds so hard that he wonders if his intention is to lift himself bodily away from the teeth, from the heat of his mouth that follows. As soon as he lifts himself away a few inches, the leather strap around his ankle keeps him down.

 

Victor palms him, trapping his shaft between his hand and Oswald’s own stomach, then pressing the flat of his tongue fully to the soft underside of his sac.

 

“If you’re like this already, I’m going to absolutely _wreck_ you in a minute,” Zsasz purrs, pausing for effect as his mouth twitches. “ _Boss._ ”

 

Then Victor takes him into his mouth all the way to the base and Oswald forgets how to breathe. Victor’s mouth is so impossibly warm around him, and despite the rest of his demeanor and looks, his tongue is as soft and wet as anyone’s. He drags it along the underside of Oswald’s length with every motion of his head, sucking hard enough to make Oswald’s vision fade at the edges.

 

It doesn’t matter. He can’t keep his eyes open, can’t keep his mouth shut.

 

Everything in his ears is buzzing, overwhelmed and squirming as best as he can manage in his current position. His backside hits the wall with a fleshy sound when he bucks back, and his bad leg, the one draped over Victor’s shoulder, is unable to keep still. He’s all but _kicking_ with it, thighs trembling under the onslaught, his heel digging bruisingly into Victor’s ribs for leverage. If it hurts, Victor doesn’t say anything, and certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

 

Soon, too soon (‘ _that was faster than I expected’),_ Oswald feels every muscle in his body tightening and coming together as the end approaches. He grits his teeth and ducks his head, stomach muscles quivering as he struggles between curling and arching, moaning and trying not to shout as loudly as the stress vibrating through his his form wants him to.

 

Then, briefly, Victor pulls off of him fully for the first time, and Oswald is too pleased to be given a short reprieve to question the motive for it.

 

Barely a full ten seconds later, his mouth is back, but there’s something different about the sensation.

 

There’s an odd, cool pressure sliding over the tip of his cock, and even though he’s preoccupied with collecting air during his break, it catches him entirely off guard. It’s eased by the heat of Victor’s mouth at first, but once it's past the head it seems to be almost _too_ tight.

 

So much so that Victor slides it all the way to the base with his teeth and leaves Oswald shaking and sobbing. A hot line of pain scratches over the sensitive flesh,  combined with pleasure he is not at all able to handle.

 

“I'm gonna-” he gasps sharply and tenses up further still, his orgasm threatening to crash over him.

 

It never does.

 

He doesn’t know why at first, why he rises up and shakes, why his toes curl and lights dance behind his eyelids, but he doesn’t _finish._ Oswald can feel his entire body lurch under the pressure, forced to the cusp of ecstasy, which was already so, god damned _much,_ and then held there.

 

“The _fuck -”_

 

He whines the curse out loud. Oswald can’t handle this, he’d barely been able to stand his fucking _hand,_ and this was so much more, so much better, so much _worse._

 

“You’ll finish way too soon without it.” Victor pulls off and offers this by way of explanation, before his mouth is back on him and he’s too far gone too explain why that doesn’t matter. Why that’s not at all what he’s worried about, how this isn’t _him_ and he’s going to _die_ if it doesn’t end soon.

 

“Fuck, _fuck..._ ahgh, fuck, Victor, _fuck -_ ” He’s practically chanting as he pulls at the cuffs, arching up and away from wall again, his leg burrowing into Victor’s back for leverage harder still.

 

His vocabulary has shrunken to expletives and a few other short, simple words.

 

It happens again and he realizes he’s sobbing into a nonexistent orgasm, shaking almost violently and pulling at the restraints until they chafe at his wrists. It’s building again, to no end, and Oswald doesn’t think he’s ever been subjected to this sort of agony, this sort of shameful cycle that’s going to leave him pleading for his sanity.

 

“I c -ahhh...I _can’t_ -”

 

Victor is pulling hard with his mouth, sucking him in a long deep strokes that are driving Oswald up the wall, literally. He turns his head up to the ceiling and another inordinate shudder passes through him, each wave more excruciating than the one before it.

 

He can’t come, he can’t _come,_ and if there was anything more terrifying than being shoved headfirst into an orgasm, it was being denied it entirely, never allowing the acute feeling to leave him, never letting him rest or breathe.

 

And the worst part _might_ have been that Victor’s mouth was too occupied to give him the real reason he allowed any of this. He was alone here, strung up and strung _out_ and crying at every stroke of his tongue over his swollen, hypersensitive erection.

 

Words break out of him at last, hoarse and pathetic.

 

“Please, _please,_ it, _nghh,_ it _hurts_ , oh fuck, oh _fuck_ -”

 

He isn’t sure why it doesn’t occur to him to say it sooner, but he figures it’s partly because doing so feels like defeat, feels like the projection of disappointment.

 

“Stop, stop, _stop,_ I can’t, fuck, I c- _an’t_ -”

 

Oswald is sputtering, his hips bucking and flinching as he cries out and _cries,_ quaking all over even when Victor pulls his mouth off of him.

 

“Stop?” He scrutinizes Oswald, frowning and reaching capturing his chin. “For real?”

 

Oswald can’t find his voice all of  a sudden, so he nods as best as he can while confined in Victor’s fingers. He feels off. He feels like he’s done something wrong, he feels like he _is_ wrong somehow, like there’s something -

 

“Alright, I _could_ leave you like this,” Victor mutters, and Oswald’s focus is drawn back to the matter right before him. Especially when fingers curl around the base of his cock and start sliding the cock ring away. “But you’ve done well, haven’t you?”

 

“I haven’t -” Oswald’s breath catches in his throat when the moment the cock ring is pulled off of him, Victor’s hand curls around the aching length of him. “I don’t need to -”

 

“Nonsense,” Victor nips his bottom lip hard, and tugs just once at Oswald’s cock to send him over.

 

Oswald gives a last shout of pleasure that’s so fierce it’s agony, his nerve endings all frayed at the edges as he spills into the waiting hand.

 

Victor unties him carefully, ankle first, then his wrists, then draws him close as Oswald crumples bonelessly against his form. He ends up in a bed that isn’t his own, and he doesn’t particularly want to be there.

 

“Gotta say,” Victor mutters as he nips hard at his collarbone. “Crying like that, begging for it to end...This was definitely the sexiest I’ve ever seen you, Boss.”

 

Teeth dig into his ear and his body reacts of it’s own accord, shivering at the pleasantness of the sensation. It pleases Victor, which in turn pleases Oswald, in some twisted way that he can’t manage to understand, but it doesn’t feel the way that it should.

 

“We’ll try that again another day.”

 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know if it makes him feel good or bad, or something in the middle, or both at the same time, or nothing at all. Well, perhaps not that last thing - despite his best efforts, nothing makes him feel _nothing at all._ He’s too tired to argue or snap, to tired to do anything, too tired somehow to even sleep until almost an hour has passed.

 

The next evening, a man named Galavan demands a meeting, and Victor becomes the least of Oswald’s worries.

 

-

 

It’s his fault. He isn’t been powerful enough, smart enough, _good_ enough to keep his mother safe. As soon as he’d risen to a station worthy of him, some piece of absolute SCUM decided to use his mother against him, to ruin him, to ruin _everything._

 

So he murders for the bastard, which is no real hardship, but it only brings the new Captain of the GCPD down harder on him. It draws attention, gives them witnesses, and then evidence, and before long everything that that he’s worked toward is crumbling around him.

 

And Jim -

 

 _Jim is no help at all,_ that self-righteous, traitorous _BAFOON._ After all he’s done for him? After every kindness Oswald bestowed upon the man, he offers next to nothing in return?

 

His mother had been right - he could trust no one but her, _no one._

 

Rising paranoia and anxiety almost cripple him over the next week. He sends his men out to search for his mother and on various errands, and only keeps Butch by his side. Butch is the closest thing to a confidant he has, because he has no mind of his own.

 

He avoids Victor vehemently. How is he to know who the man works for - he has no true loyalties, just the man with the most influence, the one that can let him kill and torture as he pleases.

 

Who is to say that isn’t _Galavan_ , now?

 

Before he knows it, he’s losing men left and right. Some of them leave of their own accord, others die in his attempts to clutch to the last remaining strings of power he has, and others he kills with his own hands out of frustration and sorrow.

 

Days pass in a piteous existence; he doesn’t have the time to relax, every moment he spends awake he is either doing Galavan’s bidding or trying to find his mother, or _drinking_ over not being able to _find his mother._ He starts downing wine in excess to sooth his ever growing, ever present worry over his mother’s safety, and to put himself into a deep enough sleep that he won’t dream of her crying, dream of her terrified and betrayed. By _him._

 

This means he passes out early, sleeps hard, and wakes up with a horrible headache and a foul mood almost daily. This also means that Victor won’t touch him, won’t even bother, as he established early that he would only play with Oswald when he was completely _present_ and _sober._

 

When Victor comes to visit him the afternoon after Barnes had stripped away one of his major sources of income, Oswald knows what it must be about. The mansion he’s made his is almost empty now, only occupied by Gabe, Butch and a few other nameless idiots who are already beginning to whisper about defection.

 

Oswald presumes, anyway.

 

He takes a long sip of wine when he hears Victor’s boots approaching and it suddenly tastes too saccharine on his tongue. He has to force himself to swallow.

 

“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?”

 

Oswald scowls into his glass. “I wish you luck with your new employer.”

 

“Aw, don’t be that way,” Victor’s tone is too light. It grates on Oswald so much he has to take another sip or else he thinks he’ll scream. “Just going where the money is.”

 

“I’m not being _any_ way.”

 

“I’m leaving in the morning,” Victor tells him, “I’ll be back in a few weeks after this job. If you’ve figured out a way around the whole ‘mom’ thing by then, I’ll kill Galavan for you, his sister, and whoever else.”

 

Oswald can’t bring himself to be grateful for the offer. There didn’t seem to be a way around it, not something he’d thought of yet, and wouldn’t he have _thought_ of it? _Why haven’t I thought of anything yet? What is wrong with me? Why is there nothing I can do?_

 

“Or, you know, if you decide mommy doesn’t matter as much as your _pride -_ ”

 

Oswald throws his near empty glass at Victor’s head blindly, but the man doesn’t even have to move out of the way. It smashes when it hits the wall, shattering along with Oswald’s self control.

 

“Get out -” He  shouts so furiously it leaves his throat feeling frayed. “Get out _NOW!”_

 

Victor does.

 

-

 

Oswald finishes the bottle and paces the room, waiting for Butch to return and give him a report. Gabe was out and about too, along with several others, trying to find the place where his mother was being kept.

 

 _Kept,_ his mind tormented him. _What a sweet way of putting it. She’s being held, probably tortured, probably hurt by those disgusting SWINE. Rotting away while I’m out here, powerless._

 

He rips up the newspaper with Galavan’s ugly fucking _face_ on it, and is soon so drunk and out of energy that he falls asleep in his chair in front of the fire.

 

His dreams don’t come easily to him, each one a ghostly image of his mother on the screen, begging for him to save her. Then Galvan’s smug expression when he keeps her dangling, out of reach. He’s in the castle he has earned for himself, and slowly it turns to sand around him, and he is buried alive and suffocating under the weight of his misdeeds.

 

“Boss, here’s some Asprin.”

 

He jerks awake, and when he looks up, he expects ( _hopes_ ) to see Victor standing before him. It’s Gabe instead, holding a glass of water and frowning at him slightly in that almost kind way of his. Oswald can’t stand to be looked at that way, not after what he’s done, what he’s allowed to _happen._

 

“...Thank you, Gabe,” he mutters, and then takes the water and tries not to be reminded of Victor’s fingers on his tongue that first night when he swallows the pill. It doesn’t work.

 

-

 

He finds Victor’s door of his own accord for the first time ( _last time?)_ , and hovers in front of it for several minutes, deciding whether or not to knock. It’s late now, after dinner time, and Oswald has spent all day moping and scheming and moping again. His own emotions, guilt and fury and fear, have built up in in the last few days beyond what he had ever felt before.

 

It felt like he was full of sludge, an ache so pure wrapping itself around it’s ribs, coating his insides like bile. He felt like he was going to be sick, felt like he was going to cry, just wanted to escape how awful he felt, desperately.

 

He’d been escaping for days. In sleep, in anger, in alcohol. He’d been doing everything to put his own regret out of his mind, to make himself feel better about what he had let happen to the one person in the world who loved him.

 

But it’s his _fault_ , and he _should_ feel guilty. He was a disgraceful son and a poor excuse for a Don, and maybe Fish and Maroni had been fucking _right,_ maybe he was nothing, _nobody_ , maybe taking over had been bad for everyone involved. Maybe he’d ruined the city when he’d usurped the throne, maybe Falcone, Maroni, or Fish would have been able to find a way around Galavan that he couldn’t seem to see. Maybe his mother would have been better off if he’d stayed an umbrella boy.

 

Maybe _he_ would have been.

 

He knocks, and instantly regrets it, the mentally snaps at himself to get a grip. He’d come here for a reason, and if he chickened out now, then not only was he a coward, he was a selfish one. He had no right to be the son of a mother as lovely, as saintly, as his.

 

Victor cocks his head to the side curiously. “Long time no see - ”

 

“I want you to hurt me.”

 

Victor’s posture shifts, drawing himself up a little higher and appraising Oswald quietly. It takes him a moment, but he soon leans forward, cups a hand to his ear and looks mockingly sheepish.

 

“Sorry, Boss, I didn’t quite catch that. I may hear it better if you phrase it as a _question._ ”

 

“...Will you please-”

 

Oswald curses the hitch in his voice. No, that’s a lie - he curses how he didn’t hesitate to appease the man, he curses whatever perverted need had brought him to Victor’s door ( _if it were sexual in nature it would be easier to understand)_ , but most of all, he curses Galavan.

 

In this instant, he curses everything, but especially himself.

 

“- hurt me?”

 

Victor raises his eyebrows and looks like he might say no, and Oswald isn’t sure how he’ll manage it if he does. All he has in the world now is Butch, a puppet who could care less for him from any place that really matters. Victor, at least, is a friend of sorts. He knows the man has enjoyed what’s happened between them, and so the pause makes Oswald’s gut twist.

 

_I’m not even truly defeated yet and I’ve bored you already?_

 

“Are you drunk?” Victor stares him down, gaze hardening to something cool and predatory.

 

“No,” Oswald responds immediately, the idea of being turned away and sent back to his own room  more appalling than he’d realized. “I was, earlier. That was hours ago.”

 

Victor releases a breath through his nose and takes a step to the side, to let Oswald by.

 

“Hurt you, huh.” Victor smiles. “That, I can do, Boss.”

 

-

 

There isn’t an inch of him that doesn’t throb with at least mild discomfort by the time Victor is through with him.

 

Oswald is barely in the door when Victor takes him by the throat and backs him up to the bed without a word. He has him on his back before long and doesn’t bother restraining him yet, and instead fists Oswald’s cock and puts enough pressure on his throat to steal his breath.

 

He claws at the man’s arm, ends up tearing open a half healed tally mark, but it doesn’t relent until Oswald comes, cock raw from friction, seconds from fainting.

 

“Up,” he says after, when Oswald is still catching his breath and trembling, chest heaving as he gulps air and touches his sore throat. “Up, closer to the headboard.”

 

He scrambles to do so, but his legs don’t want to work for him, so it takes him longer than he’s proud of. Victor’s next order is for him to strip, but yet again the man loses patience and pulls his trousers down and off for him, yanking him halfway across the bed in the process.

 

“On your stomach.”

 

 _Thud thud,_ goes Oswald’s heart in his head and he hesitates.

 

“Wait, what exactly are you -”

 

“On your _stomach,_ ” Victor snarls at him, rising up on his knees on the mattress and making Oswald feel every inch as naked as he now was. “Ask me to stop if you want me to stop, but if you _don’t_ I expect you to do as I say.”

 

Oswald does, and tries not to jump when Victor grips his arms and pulls them snugly behind him. He secures them with rope this time, taking his time, then spreads Oswald open wide, tying each ankle to opposing bedposts.

 

It’s a relief, to be sure, that Victor doesn’t actually _fuck_ him, though he would have allowed it, if only because he’s fairly sure it will hurt like hell. Victor, in all of his wisdom, finds less crude ways to oblige his request, though he doesn’t breathe a word about his plans the whole while. The entire time he lets Oswald wonder about his intentions. He even goes so far as he spread his cheeks open, making Oswald jolt at the sudden exposure, only for the rope to be fit snugly between them.

 

There’s rope drawn firmly over his body in tight lines, and every time he shifts he can feel it rubbing against his sac, against his pucker, bright patches of burning that doesn’t let him get completely comfortable, doesn’t let his skin go without irritation in one place or another for a second. But that’s fine, that’s what he’d wanted; he’s so distracted by the snug restraints he can’t focus on his real problems, on what is happening outside this room.

 

It’s when Victor tells him to open his mouth so he can put the ball gag in that Oswald falters.

 

“How can I - “ He peers at the red ball and the straps suspiciously. It isn’t as comical now as the first time, not when it’s going to be in his mouth, holding his jaw open for any embarrassing sound that might push forth. Not that he’s great at holding those in anyway. “If I need to stop, how -”

 

Victor is gruff as he responds. “Three fingers for ‘go’, two for ‘slow down’ and one for ‘stop’.”

 

Oswald blinks, still uncertain and Victor narrows his eyes.

  
“Can’t you move your fingers? I checked for circulation.”

 

“...Yes.”

 

“Good,” He says, then runs a finger down Oswald’s jawline. “Now open for me.”

 

Oswald does as he’s told, again, and cringes at the taste of plastic. The taste all but disappears as Victor stands back and admires the picture he makes, dressed up like fucking _dinner_ , and smooths a hand over the curve of Oswald’s rear.

 

“That’s better.”

 

Then he takes out the flogger he’d shown Oswald weeks before, making sure he sees it again before he sets it down on the bed and shuts out the lights in the form of a blindfold. Oswald is glad for it; the darkness is comforting. Which he supposes could be an analogy for his relationship with Zsasz in general, if he were going to get maudlin.

 

The real pain begins then, though at first it doesn’t seem like much. It starts slow, a rhythm like the ticking of the clock, and in the darkness Oswald finds himself feeling as hypnotized as if he were watching it swing back and forth.  The pendulum brings affliction ( _contrition)_ across his ass and over his thighs with every motion though, each stinging cross a leaving him a little more tender.

 

Soon there were colors swirling before his eyes as each strike made pain dance through his system. Again, again, again, _again,_ until time lost it’s meaning. The blows _were_ a pendulum, they _were_ time, and he was being raced by the very force of the world itself. He’s being tested, being punished, because he’s to blame for all of this, if he’d only been happy the way things were, with his mother, with Fish, perhaps even with Maroni he could have spared himself this this misery, this indecency which has somehow become his lifeline.

 

Two fingers.

 

Two fingers, _twofingers -_

 

His motor skills haven’t failed him, it appears, because he feels them move and the blows suddenly come to a halt.  It’s only after a moment of quiet, with only the aching aftermath, does he realize he’s been sobbing quite loudly, and despite all of that, his hardness is trapped between his stomach and the bed and throbbing, suffering as he is kept immobilized.

 

“Shhh, you’re doing so well, take deep breaths, you should fucking _see_ yourself.”

 

Oswald tries to picture himself, but can’t. His mind won’t go there, as though the prolonged period without sight has made him forget what it’s like to see. He just feels arms and legs ache in their stretched positions, feels cool wetness on his mouth and chin, dampness in the sheets that says he’s been drooling around the gag for quite some time. Crying too, though after a while his gasping little cries had been drowned out, muted within his own turbulent mind.

 

“We’re going to do ten more,” He tells Oswald, garnering a whimper. “I know you can handle it. You’re so fucking _good._ Show me your fingers.”

 

And Oswald -

 

Oswald finds himself wanting to be good, more than he wants the pain to stop, more than he wants it to continue, more than he wants _anything_ in this moment. Trembling, he lifts three fingers, and takes the next ten blows one at a time. They’re slower now but he still feels his eyes glazing over.

 

“I’m going take the gag off of you, and then use my knife again. Show me your fingers.”

 

Oswald is so tired, so uncomfortable, but he twitches three of his fingers open to show that it’s okay. He’d been counting on it, in the colder corners of his head, despite how much he’d disliked it the first time. Somehow, in a way he can’t begin to put to words, he doesn’t have to like it to _like_ it.

 

“...Your skin is perfect for carving up,” Victor says lowly, wistfully, slowly and carefully untying each limb once. Oswald is so far away from caring about the scars it will leave that even that simple sentiment is enough to make him agree.

 

His mother isn’t around to see them, or care about them. Possibly never will be, unless -

 

For the next hour, Victor presses his knife into Oswald’s back again and again. He squirms a bit at first, has to be coaxed back down into whatever gooey, warm state seemed to have its grasp on him. There doesn’t seem to be any particular pattern at all whatever picture he’s making, just whatever thrill he gets from parting flesh with a blade.

 

A particularly deep stroke near his hip has Oswald whining an incoherent protest. Victor lets up and wipes away the blood so he can start a new, safely shallow line. He strokes his hands down his sides and tells Oswald how pretty he looks all painted in red, but doesn’t make him come again, which Oswald is pretty sure would send him into another crying fit anyway.

 

Though Oswald can’t sleep while he’s cutting him, the moment Victor starts to coat him with healing salve and bandage him up, he dozes off under the care immediately.

 

Hours later, Victor leaves to catch his flight, and Oswald doesn’t get out of his bed until late until the next evening, feeling even worse than he had the night before. It isn’t just physical - that part had been obvious enough and was expected. There’s something that seems to be missing in him, an alcove in addition to the hollow place his mother had left, which he cannot identify.

 

He didn’t _care_ about Victor, not to the extent that would cause this sort of emotional distress, one which makes it near impossible to pull himself out of the bed. The tangible pain _has_ made him feel better, in a way it’s made him feel like healing is possible, but there is also a visceral emptiness that he’s left with as he lies, aching all over, upon Victor’s bed.

 

It’s the first time he considers that perhaps -

 

 _Perhaps_ his mother had been mistaken, despite having his best interests at heart.

 

Perhaps there _is_ something wrong with him, something that power and revenge and murder will never be able to fix. Something that the pain made right, just a little, or at the very  least fitting.

 

Oswald feels everything, which makes it easier not to think one specific part of his life that is not at all going to plan. Makes it easier to forget for a while that his own ambitions had put his mother in danger, had not only begun the first structure crumblings of his newly formed empire but also ruined his mother’s image of him ( _but haven’t you already done that yourself?)._ She is in danger, she is hurting, and so it feels  - not good, but _right_ for him to share in her agony.

 

He imagines she’s probably lonely now, too.

 

-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, which...was way longer than anticipated. I wanted to get across that while Vic and Oz enjoy each others company (murder buds!) and kind of give one another what they need at the time, they also just aren't compatible. Also, angst! Yay! Right? This chapter was fun to write. I had to add tags too, because I wasn't intending to go quite so far. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think. :)


	4. Edward

-

-

-

_ “What if — is more complicated than that? What if maybe opposite is true as well? Because, if bad can sometimes come from good actions—? where does it ever say, anywhere, that only bad can come from bad actions? Maybe sometimes — the wrong way is the right way? You can take the wrong path and it still comes out where you want to be? Or, spin it another way, sometimes you can do everything wrong and it still turns out to be right?”  _ ― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

 

-

-

-

 

_ Too late. _

 

“He killed my  _ mother _ , Jim!”

 

_ I was too late. _

 

The words taste sour on his tongue. His eyes burn, feeling tears welling up all over again, but he’d cried too much already and this was not the  _ time. _

 

_ He killed my mother.  _

 

But Jim is protecting Galavan,  _ Jim is protecting Galavan,  _ and Oswald has an urge to just kill him too, so he can finally put that animal in the  _ ground.  _ It won’t work, he knows, and he’ll end up dead in the process, but when Jim pushes the man into the car, he sees red and thinks he might try anyway.

 

He’s almost happy to be shot, to have that terrible sting remind him what this entire elaborate display had been  _ for.  _ He was shocked into motion and realized that above all he had to  _ live,  _ he had to get out of here so that he could try again, or perhaps just so he could give up and curl up and die peacefully just to be with her again.

 

_ He killed my mother. He killed my mother. She died in my arms, and I couldn’t save her. I did something wrong, I didn’t do everything I could have, I couldn’t stop this. He killed my mother. _

 

Night turns to day inside a decrepit trailer in the woods.

 

Everything hurts, and not in the way it should. He thinks he’s managed to stop the bleeding, but he still feels like there is sand in his veins, his head pounding, every joint in his body aching. The burn from the bullet is gone and instead there is a terrible ache that stretches all the way down his spine.

 

This is how it ends for him then. He’d come so far, only to be outmatched and humiliated. Only to die in the woods, no friends or family or even allies to speak of.

 

Then he hears a car. 

 

The engine isn't especially loud,  but it's stark against the silence of the wood, which has previously only been broken by the melodic chirping of birds. It had lulled him into a melancholy, reminded him of his mother, left him on the brink of despair, but in the rumble of a car and the crunch of twigs and branches under ties he feels a flicker of hope.

 

By the time he finds the strength to get up and search for the driver, the man is gone. But there  _ is _ food, a sandwich that seems to give him the last burst of life that he needs to go on. 

 

The body that is decomposing in the suitcase gives him second thoughts about his potential savior, however. Oswald manages to get back to the trailer to rest, though the transition is blurry, and passes out as soon as he makes it inside.

 

Then he awakes to the sound of footsteps outside. It’s dark again, but a beam of light is passing over the windows,  indicating that someone is outside. 

 

He grabs a pipe that’s lying on the rotting floorboards beside him for protection before he heads out, not sure whether or not he intends to fight or beg - no matter. He collapses after only a few steps. 

 

Every part of him is cold and drained, he just wants to sleep, just wants everything to  _ stop. _

 

He lands at the feet of a familiar stranger, Oswald’s vision goes dark before he can place him.

 

-

 

There is something wrong with Edward Nygma.

 

He smiles too wide and talks too much and sits too close. He’s almost manic at times, and his gaze is disconcertingly intense and flattering at the same time. Both grate on Oswald’s nerves; the man has no right to look at him with such unfaltering eyes, nor with such awe. It isn’t fair, when he’s done so little of late to be in awe of.

 

But he does. Ed looks at him with unadulterated admiration and respect, and Oswald feels like an fool for how much he likes it.

 

-

 

No one has ever considered him a friend. That isn’t just him sulking, it’s just the truth. He’s never been the charismatic sort and he doesn’t really see that changing in the near future - being that sort of leader, the kind that everyone loves a little bit ( _ Fish) _ has never been an option. Butch and Victor are the closest he’s ever gotten to  _ companions _ , and neither of those relationships are particularly exemplary.

 

But Ed -

 

Ed is trying so hard to make it all work, even when Oswald isn’t being particularly friendly or forthcoming. His mother is dead and everything seems dull, but Ed is tolerant and patient, and irritatingly right about virtually everything. About Oswald, about his mother, about love, and weakness, and freedom.

 

It’s really no wonder Oswald lets him get away with as much as he does.

 

-

  
  


“I’m curious about something.”

 

_ Aren’t you always?  _ Seems too familiar, so Oswald just lifts his head from where  it had been stooped slightly to read the paper. If he’s going to get back to work as soon as he’s physically capable, he can’t slack on current events - information was the silk with which he’d spun his web of power previously and he could use it again to defeat Galavan, if only he could gather the correct kind.

 

Information was sometimes all that was needed to break through the enemy’s gates.

 

That, and guns. Big guns.

 

“You don’t have to answer.”

 

Oswald’s brow furrowed, gearing up for something line-crossing and intrusive.

 

“I know I don’t.”

 

Ed’s lips forming a small, acknowledging smile in his direction before he right jumps in again.

 

“Your scars.”

 

Oswald tenses, but counts himself lucky that Ed hadn’t brought them up before. If weren’t nearly a week into this little roommate situation, he might not have reacted as cordially. 

 

He bites out,“I have many; you’ll need to be more specific.”

 

Ed doesn’t falter.

 

“The ones on your back. The ones that look like someone spent hours just...drawing on you.”

 

He’d known, of course, exactly what scars Ed must he talking about. This time Oswald doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t stand up and walk away either. Why doesn’t he just walk away? Go to bed, maybe even break something of Ed’s just to make it clear how  _ not okay  _ this line of questioning is? This is none of Ed’s business. His personal life isn’t Ed’s business, even if he’s somehow managed to worm his way into it.

 

“I can’t figure out when you would have gotten them,” Ed continues, looking up at the ceiling and leaping off onto a tangent that Oswald isn’t prepared for. “You weren’t captured by anyone, immediately previous to us meeting. There wouldn’t have been time, would there? You had to have received them within the week, considering the stage of the healing process. And the way they were dressed already, it seems like if it  _ was  _ torture, said torturer was very -”

 

“Is there a  _ question? _ ” Oswald snaps suddenly, cutting him off, shoulders tight and high with tension.

 

“Ah, yes, well,” Ed clears his throat. “I was wondering if you’d - well,  _ allowed  _ it to happen. It seemed the only fitting scenario.”

 

“Why is this your business?”

 

“I know it isn’t,” Ed replies simply, “I’m curious. I was hoping you’d indulge me.”

 

_ Indulge me.  _ The words are striking for some reason, so much so that his instinct to shut Ed down that instant is overridden. It isn’t like Ed can judge him, with his  ‘I’m a butterfly who kills people’ thing, right? And if he does, well, Oswald will just never trust him with anything again, ever. Simple.

 

Oswald is quiet for several seconds, straightening the front of his robe self consciously.

 

“Yes. I allowed it.”

 

“Ah.” Ed hesitates then, watching him with dark eyes. Oswald feels like he’s a particularly obstinate labrat that won’t conform to the reaction expected of it. “So, you...liked it?”

 

Oswald sighs out of his nose, “...Not particularly.”

  
“Oh,” Ed blinks, “Then why did you -?”

 

“It felt good,” Oswald explains curtly, eyes pointedly averted. “ at the time.”

 

“It.. felt good,” Ed restates slowly, making sure he understands. “But you didn’t ...really like it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Oswald tells him, and only realizes that he’s lying after the fact. He shifts in his seat and shrugs, noticing that said wounds have healed enough by now that the motion barely tugs at the stitches at all, though he still aches and itches terribly. “I suppose so. Is that so  _ inconceivable _ ?”

 

He’s being snide, and he knows it. Ed doesn’t quite deserve it, but Oswald can’t bring himself to care. He shouldn’t have brought up Victor’s work on his back - how he’d managed to voice a question about something that personal when they barely new each other (even if they  _ had  _ bonded a bit over their mutual interests music and murder) was beyond Oswald.

 

But then, he supposes, Ed has a bit of a problem with boundaries. His lack of respect for social graces has probably saved Oswald’s life, however, and so he figures he can give Ed a pass.

 

Ed taps his fingers on the table between them, pinky first and then with each finger inward as if he were playing a run on the piano with both hands in unison. Oswald lifts his gaze and Ed holds it there as he answers.

 

“Is it conceivable that someone could fail to like something that’s good? Probably as conceivable as it is to  _ like  _ something that is  _ bad _ ,” Ed answers with a smile that flashes wide, and Oswald wonders how he can manage to speak while wearing it. “Very.”

 

Oswald turns away back to the paper he’d been reading. It takes him much too long to find his place.

 

-

 

In the middle of the night Oswald makes a trip to the bathroom, and on the way back his bad leg catches on an end table. The resulting crash is loud and makes Ed jolt upright from his place on the couch. Even though Oswald isn’t terribly hurt by it, and he’s pushing himself up with a soft grunt in less than a few seconds, 

 

Ed is already off the couch.

 

A hand is wrapping around his upper arm and dragging him the rest of the way onto his feet. Oswald’s stomach is left somewhere on the ground.

 

“Mr. Penguin, are you -?

 

“Yes, yes,” Oswald assures him quickly, swatting at Ed’s hand. He’s released, and he immediately starts over toward the bed to go back to sleep, trying to brush off his embarrassment.

 

“Wait, I should check your stitches,” Ed says before he can sit down on the mattress. Oswald grimaces.    
“You could have ripped something in the fall.”

 

“What? No, Ed, go back to sleep,” Oswald grimaces  as he turns back to face him. Ed had followed him closely, and he’s much closer than expected. Oswald holds firm rather than following his instinct to back away from him, noticing that at some point Ed had managed to get his glasses on his face.

 

“It will just take a moment,” Ed tells him without hesitation, reaching out for his shoulder as if to peel the robe off of him.

 

Oswald sets his lips, moving to swat at him again. “Honestly, I’m going to  _ sleep _ , Ed, I’m not-”

 

“I  _ insist _ .”

 

“I’m perfectly fine, I think I could  _ tell  _ if I pulled my -”

 

The hand moves up more toward Oswald’s neck now instead, and his thumb presses near his clavicle, fingers tightening as he pushes again. His heart leaps into his throat now as though to make itself acquainted, getting stuck somewhere near his voice box and silencing him.

 

“Sit  _ down. _ ”

 

The timbre of his voice moves hotly all the way down into Oswald’s knees, leaving them weak (though it makes a home a little higher up). He slinks down onto the bed as Ed sits him there, and he’s almost dizzy when Ed joins him, though farther back on the bed so he can shift slightly behind him to look at his back.

 

Oswald finds his voice, just barely.

 

“Fine, but be  _ quick  _ about it.”

 

There’s a little breath of a laugh. Oswald is tense as he shrugs off Ed’s hand, his robe, and then he pulls up his shirt enough for Ed to see the bandages. 

 

Oswald isn’t fool enough to not realize that he’s probably the tiniest bit infatuated with Nygma. But if that’s the case, it’s only because he saved his life, and looked at him like he was still who he’d  _ been,  _ and a little bit because of the tone of his voice when he’d put him there just now. It’s just an illusion based on gratefulness and this temporary companionship he’d been given, and he's certain it will fade quickly.

 

It still disconcerts him knowing that while letting Ed touch him, however short lived and born of the immediate situation it might be. Perhaps it shouldn’t though, as Ed’s hands check him quickly and precisely without lingering or suggestion of any sort. His smiles always last a bit too long but his touches never do.

 

“Well, it looks like you held together.”

 

Ed pulls away when he’s finished securing the bandages back into place. 

 

“As I told you,” Oswald says, shoulders lifting as he pulls down his shirt and up the robe, smoothing a hand over his hair in a flurry of motion. 

 

Ed doesn’t move to get off of the bed at first. When Oswald turns to look back at him, Ed’s gaze is analyzing him, green light cast against his glasses, obscuring his left eye at this angle.

 

“Can I go to sleep now?” Oswald asks exasperatedly, turning away again and yanking up the covers over himself, as if intent on doing so whether or not Ed decides to move. This seems to trigger Ed, as he jolts into motion in the next instant.

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

Oswald times it so that he’s lying down in the same motion that he is, so that he can avoid looking at him just yet. It’s a silly thing, but it makes it easier for Oswald somehow. He isn’t sure why.

 

He rolls his eyes at himself as he listens to the padding of Ed’s feet against the hardwood floor, and the creak of old springs beneath the couch cushions as he settles there again. As he listens, Oswald lies too still curled up beneath the blanket, unable to sleep for the better part of an hour. 

 

Oswald traces his fingers over his collarbone, touching the place Ed had pressed and hearing him say again  _ ‘sit down’.  _ He feels the ghost of an ache pulse through him, heavy and warm in the pit of his stomach; he goes asleep while trying to ignore it, though he never quite manages.

 

.

 

Galavan is dead.

 

So is his mother, and dozens of other nameless people, but most importantly -  _ Galavan is dead.  _ Oswald had beaten him with a baseball bat, which had been even more satisfying than he’d imagined. Jim had finished him off, which wasn’t as he’d planned. Nevertheless, the result was the same; he could sleep in peace again, and he also had even more leverage against Jim Gordon.

 

Somehow the fact that Jim had been working on his side willingly for once isn’t as satisfying as he imagined it would be. It’s thrilling, certainly, but it doesn’t leave him feeling as pleased as he’d thought it would over the months before. 

 

Instead he thinks about singing his mother’s song with Ed on the piano. On the fact that Ed had known the song in the first place, and had learned to play it just to lift his spirits. 

 

So yes, Galavan is dead but everything is not right with the world, not just yet. His mother will never come back to him and it will be months of hard work before he will be able to climb back into the seat that he had crafted for himself at the head of Gotham’s underworld.

 

Still, this is a magnificent start.

 

It’s his last night at Ed’s place, and in truth, he hadn’t really needed to stay there, not now that he was mostly healed and physically stable. Ed had told him it was fine, and it wasn’t  _ him  _ sleeping on the couch, so he’d agreed. It would be nice, sleeping somewhere that had grown so familiar to him, even if it was nothing extravagant like the mansion that would be his for the taking soon.

 

He listens to the soft sounds of Ed snoring from the couch. No doubt he’ll be glad to have his bed back soon, and no doubt Oswald will be glad to have a bed with a decent pillow top again as well.

 

However true that may be, he still can’t help but feel he’ll miss the metronome of someone else’s breathing has become something of a comfort, among other things.

 

-

 

Instead the next bed he finds himself in is thinner and smaller than Ed’s, that of a cot in a jail cell of the GCPD. Then later, a similar (nearly identical, actually) cot in a tiny, even more depressing room at Arkham. There are scratch marks on the wall from the last resident, a dark stain on the floor, and the legs of the bed are infuriatingly uneven. He wonders if this god awful place drives more people mad than it cures.

 

After only a day as a captive inside those gloomy walls, he is certain that is the case.

 

It's within the walls of Arkham that he comes around to the truth, with the help of electroshock therapy and frequent sessions with Dr. Strange. He recognizes it as manipulation, and knows that this board-approved form of torture is meant to do nothing more than break him down so that he is susceptible. It isn’t an easy truth to come around to, and he spits and snarls and kicks and screams against it. 

 

He is clever, he is handsome, he is  _ special _ . His mother’s words are almost comical, but they are kind, and even that memory of her kindness is enough to keep him holding on. Enough to make him remember who he is and to keep his head above water, enough to keep him scrambling for his own identity.

 

For a couple weeks, anyway.

 

Because above being clever, handsome, and special, Oswald is a  _ survivor  _ above all. At some point it just isn’t conducive to his own continuance to keep fighting. There is a reason the mind buckles under pressure, to protect itself from shattering; it is sometimes better to concede defeat in a battle rather than to be massacred with no hope of vengeance.

 

Oswald fakes it at first, but Dr. Strange has true intellect beneath his eerie persona, and so Oswald’s guise becomes reality. He manages to convince himself that he’ll win the war before the last of his resistance gives out and Hugo Strange’s truth becomes his truth.

 

-

 

_ “Good things happen to good people.” _

 

_ Oh. _

 

That’s  _ it _ . It rings cold and loud in his ears, but it also gives him hope. Dr. Strange looks proud of him, and it’s such an odd thing to see directed at him ( _ not since his mother _ ), unless one counted Fish, and Victor, and Ed. But this is different ( _ wrong, better)  _ because this is pride in Oswald working through the warped sense of ambition and rage that had festered within him all his life.

 

Those  words strike through the frazzled ends of his brain, sharpening his life into harsh focus.  _ That  _ must be it. That must be why so much has gone wrong; because there  _ is  _ something wrong with him.

 

His mother hadn’t meant to lie to him. She had been blinded by her own goodness, naive with her love for him - it was Oswald who should have known better. 

 

There  _ is  _ something wrong with Oswald Cobblepot, something inherently  _ him. _

 

His mother isn’t around to argue.

 

-

 

There is something (very, violently, sickeningly)  _ wrong  _ with Oswald Cobblepot, and Dr. Strange says that acknowledging it is the first step toward recovery. 

 

So yes,  _ yes _ , he says, and when he speaks sometimes he hears Strange and Peabody speaking with him as if in unison. Their mouths never move, and he isn’t dumb enough to think it’s  _ real,  _ but their voices ring in his ears even when he hums his mother’s song in the quiet of his room ( _ cell) _ .

 

A week passes, and he sometimes hears Jim’s voice join in when he speaks ( _ his mother’s, Mooney’s, Butch’s, Nygma’s _ ). Another week, and he begins to hear them in his head to, a greek chorus in the tragedy of his mind ( _ life _ ). He grows used to the splintering, learns to bend rather than break entirely ( _ even if he bends so much he begins to splinter) _ .

 

He reaffirms it until Dr. Strange believes him ( _ until he believes himself _ ); there is something thing wrong with him ( _ using the singular form is being generous).  _ There is, without question, wrong with Oswald Cobblepot.

 

But, Oswald finds himself thinking as the buzzing in his brain slowly quiets, he needn’t worry -

 

Dr. Strange is helping him, and so soon, there won’t be.

 

-

 

It’s as though he can feel Strange’s fingers in his brain, molding him to be different ( _ better) _ . There was something wrong ( _ terrible _ ,  _ disgusting) _ with Oswald, but over the next few weeks he learns that hurting people makes him sick to his stomach and on his past murders with any fondness makes his mind flinch. 

 

Most people experience an aversion to gore, so he’s practically normal now. Even if becoming normal ( _ good)  _ hurts, even if it hurts a  _ lot,  _ it’s worth it so he can be a productive ( _ obedient)  _ member of society. 

 

It’s what his mother would want, who his mother would want him to  _ be (gonna be somebody in this town) _ . That, Oswald thinks, is probably why his mind gives in under the weight of the electroshocks and constant verbal redirection from Strange.

 

_ (and because he’s just, so tired.) _

 

Because of all the things that Dr. Strange had told him, that one rung the truest, and the most poignantly in his head. Until he can hear his mother’s voice telling him how proud she is of him, until he’ll do  _ anything  _ to be the man that she saw him as. If he had been in the first place, after all, she’d still be with him, and he wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

 

( _ because of  _ your  _ weakness) _

 

Soon Oswald thinks only in naive, happy lies, until he almost can’t exist without the direction of Dr. Strange or someone,  _ anyone, tell me what I’m supposed to do from here. _ When he’s released from Arkham, he wanders uncertainly in a fog for some time before he comes up with the brilliant idea of righting his wrongs and visiting his old friend. He’d missed them dearly, and he could use companionship ( _ leadership) _

 

It’s really no wonder, that he ends up humiliated by his past enemies, cast aside by his only friend, and then virtually enslaved by his only living relatives within a month.

 

-

 

Another parent lost, but his dignity and autonomy had been regained. Two steps forward, one step back. There’s always something to be taken from him, he’s come to find. Sometimes it is as though he is given gifts by the world only so that he has something to be ripped out of his fingers as soon as he’s learned to be content. 

 

Luckily, Oswald Cobblepot is a survivor, and has no intentions of  _ staying  _ down. 

 

Oswald spends a full forty-eight hours sulking and trying to wrap his mind around being  _ himself  _ again before he can think about leaving the house. It’s only when the news starts spouting story after story about Galavan again, this time even more ridiculous than the last. He can’t find the rantings of the madman amusing at all, seeing as he’d taken so much away from him.

 

Instead, he revels in killing him a second time and laughs in Dr. Strange’s memory as he does so.

 

He’ll save regret for his mother, and maybe, a little bit -

 

-

 

Fish Mooney.

 

Her voice is white noise ( _ impossible) _ and her mismatched eyes ( _ impossible) _ dance at him with even more light and darkness than they ever had before.

 

...Oswald just wants to go back to sleep.  His brain acquiesces a little too readily.

 

-

 

“Come here, Darling, let Mama take a look at you.”

 

The second occasion that Fish asks Oswald to strip down to nothing in front of her is planned. She sends him a note in the morning that tells him to be home by eight expecting her to visit him. It is delivered by an overly enthusiastic messenger boy. The sight of him makes Oswald faintly jealous, and he’s crueler to the boy than is entirely reasonable; he snatches the letter out of his hand and snarls at him to be on his  _ way. _

 

Oswald arrives home half an hour early to make sure he’s ready for her, but it’s only when she’s looking him over appraisingly does he realize what he’s forgotten. 

 

Her fingers trail over his shoulders and then up the back of his neck, almost tickling him. It’s only the way his stomach has dropped at the thought of disappointing her that keeps him from shivering all over. He is entirely too still now, not even shifting to ease the pressure on his knees that kneeling is beginning to cause.

 

“You know I prefer your hair  _ clean  _ when we meet like this,” She glances over him, dragging her eyes over his bare form, not bothering to let him get it over with. The scrutiny leaves his mind jumbled, and he quickly moves to smooth over the affront.

 

“I’m sorry, I had to run out earlier and I couldn’t just let -”

 

“Oswald,” Her voice deepens on the second syllable of his name, “I understand.”

 

“I didn’t have time to wash it-” He begins again, so that he has at least some foundation for his excuse before she decides to shut him down entirely.

 

“ _ Oswald, _ ” Fish’s voice is sharp enough to make him stammer to a stop. “I told you, I  _ understand. _ I protect my image, and part of that is having a ... _ style _ .”

 

She runs his fingers through his hair and leans in, her voice all teeth. Sometimes Fish likes to do his hair for him, like she had in the beginning, and he has to admit that she is  _ better  _ at it than he is. There is also something to be said for having one’s hair brushed  _ for  _ them, but that’s another thought entirely.

 

“I  _ like  _ that about you.”

 

Her fingers catch in the the gel he used to style it, catching him off guard with the prickling pain. His head is pulled back slightly and his breath stills in his throat.

 

_ You do? _

 

“I’ll let you go unpunished this time, Oswald,” Fish nips at the shell of his ear hard and he swallows. “But only because I understand you, only because you’re  _ such  _ a good boy for me.”

 

Warmth fills up the cavity of his chest and rises like a tide into his cheeks and ears.

 

“But, my precious baby boy,” She punctuates the threat by pulling his hair hard, until he’s looking up at the ceiling and his mouth is forced open with the angle of it. “ _ Next  _ time.”

 

She clicks her tongue against her teeth and punctuates the sound with another quick, harsh pull, before letting go.

 

-

 

Oswald’s head is throbbing when he wakes up, alerting him to the fact that somehow, he isn’t dead.

 

( _ impossible) _

 

He wakes up on the street, more surprised than ever that he’s lasted the night. It doesn’t make sense ( _ impossible) _ . He had been defenseless, and Fish had been -

 

(“ _ Oh, Oswald, nothing is impossible.”) _

 

Gotham is the the land of opportunity, if one has the guts to take it. Oswald has the guts, because Fish let him keep them. Although he doesn’t know why, he knows that much. It gnaws at his mind, but the fact remains the same. He is alive, and he uses his life in the way he always has - to make something of himself, to be someone worth  _ being.  _

 

Despite his assertion, despite his renewed vigor when it comes to establishing once more, he find his mind a terrible jumble of thoughts. His emotions have scrambled him, and he needs to be steadied.

 

That’s when he decides to visit Edward in Arkham for the first time.

 

He ( _ never) _ comes to regret it.

 

-

 

Edward Nygma is wrong about something for once. It isn’t Arkham that made him stronger. The breaking of a bone is not what makes it stronger, it’s the process of recuperation. It’s how it is set, how well it is cared for during the healing period that creates strength. 

 

When Oswald uses this analogy in front of Ed, he is promptly corrected.

 

“ _ Actually _ , while the initial callus at the fracture location does make the bone stronger  _ temporarily _ , once the bone is entirely healed, it is no more or less likely to break than the places that remain unbroken.”

 

Ed is always doing that. 

 

Oswald loves information, and Edward is a treasure trove of it. Even if it can be irritating, Oswald can’t find it in him to fault the man for it. Or for anything else, as it turns out. All the while Fish looms in the corner of his vision. It’s driving him mad, the constant threat of her - she exists, she’s alive, she hates him, and she has seen him at his most vulnerable.

 

Once again, Oswald finds himself drifting toward blissful distraction.

 

-

 

In a serendipitous turn of events, Oswald finds that for once, he is truly  _ popular. _ Not because everyone is laughing at him, or intrigued by his portfolio of crime, but because they agree with him and in some cases even  _ admire  _ him.

 

The people of Gotham are scared and hurting, fighting desperately to survive, and there is no one to protect them but Oswald. He can relate.

 

As usual, Oswald finds his reflection in this terrible, splendid city. Gotham City is sick and wrong, but it also simply  _ is.  _

 

(“ _ Don’t think too badly of me. We are what we are.”) _

 

Oswald finds comfort in the idea that he was tailor-made for this city, and that he is finally being recognized for it by it’s people. That there may be something intrinsically wrong with him, something that will never be salvaged, but Two wrongs can make a right, if they are wrong in the right ways, if they compliment one another. 

 

Sometimes he can see Gotham City in the glint of Ed’s eyes too, in the creases of his eyes and the shine of his teeth when he smiles.

 

-

 

Perhaps he sees them both in Fish that night in the dark. He sees his mother, and Edward, and home; her approval means more than it should, more than he had ever imagined. She has no right bringing tears to his eyes, no right to make his chest swell with pride at her sentiment, her  _ respect _ .

 

While she stands beside the man who tortured him, who made self-loathing choke him like bile whenever he tried to be himself, she seals her lips over his wound ( _ let Mama help). _ He blinks hard and his mouth suddenly tastes like copper. He lets her go.

 

It is the most foolish thing  _ (possibly the best thing _ ) he’s ever done.

 

_ “You are such a good boy, Oswald.” _

 

-

 

The angry mobs calm down but their allegiance miraculously doesn’t shift.  The new previous warden folds under his threat without fail, and soon Edward comes to stay with him at the mansion. It feels right, the both of them staying under the same roof. It feels more like home than any place had since his mother had been taken from him.

 

For once in Oswald’s life, it seems like things are going his way.

 

At every corner there seems to be some sort of catch, but each time the situation unfolds to bring him into an even high position of power and reputation. Not to mention, his growing fondness of the first true friend he’d ever had, one who teaches as much as he learns, who appreciates Oswald brilliance and brings his own to the table. Ed proves himself tirelessly, endlessly, never allowing Oswald to distrust him for long. 

 

It gets to the point where Oswald doesn’t want to try anymore, and that is when the the first insidious, sappy notion starts to creep into his head.

 

-

 

“Mr. Mayor, I do believe you’re late to your own breakfast meeting,” Ed’s face splits into another one of his smiles, “You’re usually such an early bird.”

 

“I didn’t sleep well,” Oswald tells him as he takes his place at the head of the table.

 

Edward stands up immediately, almost so abruptly that it’s startling, stepping in toward Oswald and pressing the back of his hand to his forehead suddenly. The touch startles him, but Oswald doesn’t move to back away, his brown furrowing beneath his palm.

 

“Do you think you’re coming down with something? The stress of the election could have -”

 

“No, no,” Oswald offers him a reassuring smile, the concern that Ed shows making him glow a bit. “It’s nothing like that.”

 

The hand is taken away just as quickly as it was given. Oswald suddenly does feel slightly feverish.

 

“What is it then? Getting the right amount of sleep is important for your continued success. You’ll end up working yourself to death.”

 

“Nightmares,” Oswald shifts away, waving his hand flippantly. “They happen sometimes.”

 

“Oh,” Ed blinks, looks away, looks back. “I see. I didn’t mean to pry.”

 

He feels the corner of his lips tug upward into an amused smile.

 

“You didn’t, now?

 

Oswald abruptly recalls the way he and Ed had met, that day at the GCPD. At how uncomfortably close Ed had come to him, and how off putting it had been. 

 

“Your tie is crooked,” Ed says, reaching in and tugging on it slightly. “You must have been half asleep when you tied it. You’ll have to redo it entirely. Here, allow me.”

 

Oswald huffs indulgently as Ed begins to untie it without preamble. “By all means.”

 

Once it’s undone, Ed straightens his collar by slipping a finger down inside and running it along the fold, his knuckles brushing Oswald’s neck the whole way. A shiver spirals it’s way through him and he swallows hard, painfully away of how his Adam’s apple must be dipping. His motions are exact, as usual, motions smooth and efficient as he folds the fabric with more care than Oswald had managed.

 

He finds himself wishing Ed might linger a bit more, that he might stand closer,  The brush of his fingers are gone too soon, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

 

The material pulls snug against the hollow of his throat. Oswald is reminded of that collar he’d worn suddenly, vibrantly. Ed’s hands smooth over his labels almost casually next, tugging Oswald gently into place, before he steps away entirely and seats himself. 

 

Oswald stands there for a long moment and watches Ed’s silhouette against the sunlight disappear against the high backed chair. He is more flustered than he has any right to be, fishes swimming in his stomach, ears burning.

.

_ Oh. _

 

-

 

Oswald holds Ed’s face in his hands, cradling him, feeling alive because Ed is alive.

 

_ Oh. _

 

-

 

Ed holds him in an embrace on the couch and Oswald tries to keep himself from melting through the cushions.

 

_ Oh _ .

 

-

 

It’s funny to him, how he doesn’t struggle with the idea (but then, so much is funny, he’s almost  _ giddy _ ).

 

The notion makes itself known organically three separate occasions, three times confirmed, It’s the silliest thing, but once the idea presents itself, he spends a few hours that evening wrapping his mind around it and planning, before falling asleep like a child before Christmas morning. He is eager for it, so much so that he can’t sleep. He has to drink two glasses of wine before his eyes want to stay closed.

 

Even after he chickens out, there’s still a lightness to his entire being when Ed looks at him, tells him he’s in  _ awe,  _ doesn’t hesitate to offer to get wine for dinner. 

 

This time,  _ this  _ time, for sure.

 

-

 

But Ed is late.  _ Too  _ late. 

 

_ Late  _ turns into  _ missing,  _ at least to Oswald. Not until Oswald’s mind is frazzled from worry and lack of sleep. 

 

He gets to hold Ed once more before his relief and hope is ripped away from him. He’s too raw from fear to be truly angry, but that doesn’t stop the sucker punch to the gut that Ed’s words deal him.

 

_ “I think I’m in love.” _

 

_ Yes, you idiot, me too, _ Oswald thinks later that morning, when Ed has left to catch up on sleep. He tries to do the same, but once again finds himself distracted by his strategy and self depreciation. If only he’d confessed that morning. If only he’d realized it  _ months  _ ago.  _ Too late again, Oswald. Better luck next time. _

 

If there’s anything Oswald has learned in his life, in the last few years especially, it’s that he is far from lucky. He makes his own luck, he carves it out of life keenly, pain-stakingly.

 

-

 

“You’re right about the brocade.”

 

_ I am? _

 

Heat rushes through him, a sharp pang of want spiking through him. It doesn’t stay that way though, and instead turns to lead and settles heavily within him. He can’t let his happen - Ed had told him too, in addition to his mother, that he had to fight.

 

Besides. Ed  _ believes  _ in him. No matter what fantasy this woman may present, she doesn’t know him like Oswald knows him. Ed has never said the things he’s said to Oswald to her (“ _ I would do anything for you”). _

 

Yes, that’s right. If Oswald truly loves Edward, then he will embody that sentiment in return. He will do anything to get Ed back ( _ did you ever have him?) _ .

 

He just has to get to her and scare her off. It shouldn’t be that difficult - Oswald is powerful, and she’s just some hussy librarian trying to take Ed  _ away  _ from him. She’s ruining everything ( _ better her than you),  _ and he can see Ed slipping away from him. He’s losing him.

 

That cannot be allowed.

 

-

 

And yet, not everything is in Oswald’s power, however much he strives to make it so.

 

Love ( _ infuriatingly)  _ cannot be bought, and neither can complete safety from Gotham’s hooligans. Another night where he is almost murdered due to his position; he’s almost becoming used to it. Just when everything had been going so well too. That creepy woman sufficiently intimidated, his status being recognized by the most powerful people in the city.

 

So Oswald arrives home, stressed and disheveled, and is relieved by the familiar figure in the sitting room. He lets out a harsh breath and begins to unload a rant on Ed, who had always offered him an ear and his counsel -

 

_ Oh. _

 

-

 

Oswald’s first thought when he is out of view is that he he has the most despicable timing imaginable. The next thought is of how that kiss had been  _ stolen  _ from him. He wanted to destroy her, wanted to make her regret ever approaching him just when everything was falling into place.

 

Ed has made Oswald feel truly wanted in a way that he had thought impossible, nothing like Fish petting him while he knelt or Victor genuinely appraising him. It wasn’t fair, that she had not invested anything into Ed, nothing but those  _ creepy paper dolls,  _ but she was acquiring his kisses already. 

 

Had Ed saved  _ her  _ life? No, of course not, he had  _ taken it.  _ Had he told her he would do anything for her? Had he said anything at all to her in that tone that he’d said  _ that  _ in to  _ Oswald? _

 

_ (“I don’t...like anyone...else.”) _

 

The idea that Ed’s devotion could be for anyone but him  _ - _

 

Oswald slams the door behind him when he reaches his quarters, wanting nothing more than to break something, anything,  _ everything.  _ His eyes burn with tears as he leans himself bodily against the wall. 

 

His bad leg protests when he sinks to his knees. It isn’t common for him to do so, but occasionally when the world gets overwhelming, he finds himself in this position. Finds himself longing for the days when he would lounge at Fish’s side for hours with her fingers in his hair.  It certainly isn’t the first time he’s found himself longing for a time when his plots were just in his head, where they couldn’t crumple in his hands and leave him worse off than before.

 

His head bows and he fumbles to loosen his tie, before pressing his hand hard against his chest as though to stuff his heart back inside itself as it tries to flee.

 

It aches with such ferocity he fears there is something wrong with him,  _ physically, _ like he might have a hole in his heart, just like his father. He hears his father’s voice reverberate against his skull.

 

_ “ _ _ You are loved, and you are not alone. And the sun will come up tomorrow.” _

 

But he doesn’t feel loved, he feels  _ alone _ , feels the weight of Ed’s absence in the pit of his stomach. Oswald’s only friend in the world, the only person he can trust, has eyes for someone else. That woman has been ensnaring Ed beneath Oswald’s own roof, a ghost from his past there to frustrate and terrorize him. Although, in truth, it’s Ed that has become a poltergeist, unfathomable and untouchable, haunting the walls of his home without any apparent care for the damage he’s doing.

 

At least his mother had had the decency to  _ leave  _ when she left.


End file.
